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* 


illustrated  (Eatrtnet  Edition 


SENSE  and  SENSIBILITY 

Volume  II 


By 

Jane  Austen 


Boston 

Dana  Estes  &  Company 

Publishers 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

“  Hum,” —  said  Mrs.  Ferrars— “  very  pretty  ”  Frontispiece 

He  laughed  most  immoderately . 184 

At  her  own  particular  request  Colonel  Brandon 

was  invited  to  visit  her . 244 


194710 


Sense  and  Sensibility 

CHAPTER  XXVII 

^TF  this  open  weather  holds  much  longer,” 
said  Mrs  Jennings,  when  they  met  at 
breakfast  the  following  morning,  “Sir 
John  will  not  like  leaving  Barton  next  week;  ’tis 
a  sad  thing  for  sportsmen  to  lose  a  day’s  pleasure. 
Poor  souls !  I  always  pity  them  when  they  do — 
they  seem  to  take  it  so  much  to  heart.” 

“That  is  true,”  cried  Marianne  in  a  cheerful 
voice,  and  walking  to  the  window  as  she  spoke,  to 
examine  the  day.  “I  had  not  thought  of  that . 
This  weather  will  keep  many  sportsmen  in  the 
country.” 

It  was  a  lucky  recollection,  all  her  good  spirits 
were  restored  by  it.  “It  is  charming  weather  for 
them  indeed,”  she  continued,  as  she  sat  down  to 
the  breakfast  table  with  a  happy  countenance. 
“How  much  they  must  enjoy  it!  But”  (with  a 
little  return  of  anxiety),  “it  cannot  be  expected 
to  last  long.  At  this  time  of  year,  and  after  such 
a  series  of  rain,  we  shall  certainly  have  very  little 
more  of  it.  Frosts  will  soon  set  in,  and  in  all 

[1] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


probability  with  severity.  In  another  day  or  two, 
perhaps;  this  extreme  mildness  can  hardly  last 
longer — nay,  perhaps  it  may  freeze  to-night!” 

“At  any  rate,”  said  Elinor,  wishing  to  prevent 
Mrs  Jennings  from  seeing  her  sister’s  thoughts 
as  clearly  as  she  did,  “I  daresay  we  shall  have  Sir 
John  and  Lady  Middleton  in  town  by  the  end 
of  next  week.” 

“Aye,  my  dear,  I’ll  warrant  you  we  do.  Mary 
always  has  her  own  way.” 

“And  now,”  silently  conjectured  Elinor,  “she 
will  write  to  Combe  by  this  day’s  post.” 

But  if  she  did,  the  letter  was  written  and  sent 
away  with  a  privacy  that  eluded  all  her  watch¬ 
fulness  to  ascertain  the  fact.  Whatever  the  truth 
of  it  might  be,  and  as  far  as  Elinor  was  from 
feeling  thorough  contentment  about  it,  yet  while 
she  saw  Marianne  in  spirits,  she  could  not  be  very 
uncomfortable  herself.  And  Marianne  was  in 
spirits,  happy  in  the  mildness  of  the  weather,  and 
still  happier  in  her  expectation  of  a  frost. 

The  morning  was  chiefly  spent  in  leaving  cards 
at  the  houses  of  Mrs  Jennings’s  acquaintance  to 
inform  them  of  her  being  in  town ;  and  Marianne 
was  all  the  time  busy  in  observing  the  direction 
of  the  wind,  watching  the  variations  of  the  sky, 
and  imagining  an  alteration  in  the  air. 

“Don’t  you  find  it  colder  than  it  was  in  the 
morning,  Elinor?  There  seems  to  me  a  very 

in 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


decided  diff erence.  I  can  hardly  keep  my  hands 
warm  even  in  my  muff.  It  was  not  so  yesterday, 

I  think.  The  clouds  seem  parting,  too,  the  sun 
will  be  out  in  a  moment,  and  we  shall  have  a  clear 
afternoon.” 

Elinor  was  alternately  diverted  and  pained; 
but  Marianne  persevered,  and  saw  every  night 
in  the  brightness  of  the  fire,  and  every  morning 
in  the  appearance  of  the  atmosphere,  the  certain 
symptoms  of  approaching  frost. 

The  Miss  Dashwoods  had  no  greater  reason  to 
be  dissatisfied  with  Mrs  Jennings’s  style  of  liv¬ 
ing  and  set  of  acquaintance  than  with  her  beha¬ 
viour  to  themselves,  which  was  invariably  kind. 
Everything  in  her  household  arrangements  was 
conducted  on  the  most  liberal  plan,  and  except¬ 
ing  a  few  old  city  friends,  whom,  to  Lady  Mid¬ 
dleton’s  regret,  she  had  never  dropped,  she  visited 
no  one  to  whom  an  introduction  could  at  all  dis¬ 
compose  the  feelings  of  her  young  companions.^ 
Pleased  to  find  herself  more  comfortably  situ¬ 
ated  in  that  particular  than  she  had  expected, 
Elinor  was  very  willing  to  compound  for  the 
want  of  much  real  enjoyment  from  any  of  their 
evening  parties,  which,  whether  at  home  or 
abroad,  formed  only  for  cards,  could  have  little 
to  amuse  her. 

Colonel  Brandon,  who  had  a  general  invitation 
to  the  house,  was  with  them  almost  every  day ;  he 

[3] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

came  to  look  at  Marianne  and  talk  to  Elinor,  who 
often  derived  more  satisfaction  from  conversing 
with  him  than  from  any  other  daily  occurrence, 
but  who  saw  at  the  same  time  with  much  concern 
his  continued  regard  for  her  sister.  She  feared 
it  was  a  strengthening  regard.  It  grieved  her  to 
see  the  earnestness  with  which  he  often  watched 
Marianne,  and  his  spirits  were  certainly  worse 
than  when  at  Barton. 

About  a  week  after  their  arrival,  it  became  cer¬ 
tain  that  Willoughby  was  also  arrived.  His  card 
was  on  the  table  when  they  came  in  from  the 
morning’s  drive. 

“Good  God!”  cried  Marianne,  “he  has  been 
here  while  we  were  out.”  Elinor,  rejoiced  to  be 
assured  of  his  being  in  London,  now  ventured  to 
say,  “Depend  upon  it,  he  will  call  again  to-mor¬ 
row.”  But  Marianne  seemed  hardly  to  hear  her, 
and  on  Mrs  Jennings’s  entrance,  escaped  with 
the  precious  card. 

This  event,  while  it  raised  the  spirits  ofElinor, 
restored  to  those  of  her  sister  all,  and  more  than 
all,  their  former  agitation.  From  this  moment 
her  mind  was  never  quiet ;  the  expectation  of  see¬ 
ing  him  every  hour  of  the  day  made  her  unfit  for 
anything.  She  insisted  on  being  left  behind  the 
next  morning,  when  the  others  went  out. 

Elinor’s  thoughts  were  full  of  what  might  be 
passing  in  Berkeley-street  during  their  absence; 
[4] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


but  a  moment’s  glance  at  her  sister  when  they 
returned  was  enough  to  inform  her  that  Wil¬ 
loughby  had  paid  no  second  visit  there.  A  note 
was  just  then  brought  in,  and  laid  on  the  table. 

“For  me!”  cried  Marianne,  stepping  hastily 
forward. 

“No,  ma’am,  for  my  mistress.” 

But  Marianne,  not  convinced,  took  it  instantly 
up.  • 

“It  is  indeed  for  Mrs  Jennings;  how  provok- 
ing!” 

“You  are  expecting  a  letter  then?”  said  Elinor, 
unable  to  be  longer  silent. 

“Yes!  a  little — not  much.” 

After  a  short  pause,  “You  have  no  confidence 
in  me,  Marianne.” 

“Nay,  Elinor,  this  reproach  from  you ! — you 
who  have  confidence  in  no  one!” 

“Me!”  returned  Elinor  in  some  confusion; 
“indeed  Marianne,  I  have  nothing  to  tell.” 

“Nor  I,”  answered  Marianne  with  energy; 
“our  situations  then  are  alike.  We  have  neither 
of  us  anything  to  tell;  you,  because  you  com¬ 
municate,  and  I,  because  I  conceal  nothing.” 

Elinor,  distressed  by  this  charge  of  reserve  in 
herself,  which  she  was  not  at  liberty  to  do  away, 
knew  not  how,  under  such  circumstances,  to  press 
for  greater  openness  in  Marianne. 

Mrs  Jennings  soon  appeared,  and  the  note 

[5] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


being  given  her,  she  read  it  aloud.  It  was  from 
Lady  Middleton,  announcing  their  arrival  in 
Conduit-street  the  night  before,  and  requesting 
the  company  of  her  mother  and  cousins  the  fol¬ 
lowing  evening.  Business  on  Sir  John’s  part, 
and  a  violent  cold  on  her  own,  prevented  their 
calling  in  Berkeley-street.  The  invitation  was 
accepted:  but  when  the  hour  of  appointment 
drew  near,  necessary  as  it  was  in  common  civility 
to  Mrs  Jennings  that  they  should  both  attend 
her  on  such  a  visit,  Elinor  had  some  difficulty  in 
persuading  her  sister  to  go,  for  still  she  had  seen 
nothing  of  Willoughby,  and  therefore  was  not 
more  indisposed  for  amusement  abroad,  than 
unwilling  to  run  the  risk  of  his  calling  again  in 
her  absence. 

Elinor  found,  when  the  evening  was  over,  that 
disposition  is  not  materially  altered  by  a  change 
of  abode;  for  although  scarcely  settled  in  town, 
Sir  John  had  contrived  to  collect  around  him 
nearly  twenty  young  people,  and  to  amuse  them 
with  a  ball.  This  was  an  affair,  however,  of 
which  Lady  Middleton  did  not  approve.  In  the 
country,  an  unpremeditated  dance  was  very 
allowable;  but  in  London,  where  the  reputation 
of  elegance  was  more  important  and  less  easily 
obtained,  it  was  risking  too  much,  for  the  grati¬ 
fication  of  a  few  girls,  to  have  it  known  that 
Lady  Middleton  had  given  a  small  dance  of  eight 
[6] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


or  nine  couple,  with  two  violins,  and  a  mere  side¬ 
board  collation. 

Mr  and  Mrs  Palmer  were  of  the  party;  from 
the  former,  whom  they  had  not  seen  before  since 
their  arrival  in  town,  as  he  was  careful  to  avoid 
the  appearance  of  any  attention  to  his  mother- 
in-law,  and  therefore  never  came  near  her,  they 
received  no  mark  of  recognition  on  their  entrance. 
He  looked  at  them  slightly,  without  seeming  to 
know  who  they  were,  and  merely  nodded  to  Mrs 
Jennings  from  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
Marianne  gave  one  glance  round  the  apartment 
as  she  entered ;  it  was  enough,  he  was  not  there — 
and  she  sat  down,  equally  ill-disposed  to  receive 
or  communicate  pleasure.  After  they  had  been 
assembled  about  an  hour,  Mr  Palmer  sauntered 
towards  the  Miss  Dashwoods,  to  express  his  sur¬ 
prise  on  seeing  them  in  town,  though  Colonel 
Brandon  had  been  first  informed  of  their  arrival 
at  his  house,  and  he  had  himself  said  something 
very  droll  on  hearing  that  they  were  to  come. 

“I  thought  you  were  both  in  Devonshire,”  said 
he. 

“Did  you?”  replied  Elinor. 

“When  do  you  go  back  again?” 

“I  do  not  know.”  And  thus  ended  their  dis¬ 
course. 

Never  had  Marianne  been  so  unwilling  to 
dance  in  her  life  as  she  was  that  evening,  and 

[I] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

never  so  much  fatigued  by  the  exercise.  She 
complained  of  it  as  they  returned  to  Berkeley- 
street. 

“Aye,  aye,”  said  Mrs  Jennings,  “we  know  the 
reason  of  all  that  very  well;  if  a  certain  person 
who  shall  be  nameless  had  been  there,  you  would 
not  have  been  a  bit  tired ;  and  to  say  the  truth,  it 
was  not  very  pretty  of  him  not  to  give  you  the 
meeting  when  he  was  invited.” 

“Invited!”  cried  Marianne. 

“So  my  daughter  Middleton  told  me,  for  it 
seems  Sir  John  met  him  somewhere  in  the  street 
this  morning.” 

Marianne  said  no  more,  but  looked  exceed¬ 
ingly  hurt.  Impatient  in  this  situation  to  be 
doing  something  that  might  lead  to  her  sister’s 
relief,  Elinor  resolved  to  write  the  next  morning 
to  her  mother,  and  hoped  by  awakening  her  fears 
for  the  health  of  Marianne,  to  procure  those 
inquiries  which  had  been  so  long  delayed;  and 
she  was  still  more  eagerly  bent  on  this  measure, 
by  perceiving  after  breakfast  on  the  morrow, 
that  Marianne  was  again  writing  to  Willoughby, 
for  she  could  not  suppose  it  to  be  to  any  other 
person. 

About  the  middle  of  the  day,  Mrs  Jennings 
went  out  by  herself  on  business,  and  Elinor  began 
her  letter  directly;  while  Marianne,  too  restless 
for  employment,  too  anxious  for  conversation, 
[8] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


walked  from  one  window  to  the  other,  or  sat 
down  by  the  fire  in  melancholy  meditation.  Eli¬ 
nor  was  very  earnest  in  her  application  to  her 
mother,  relating  all  that  had  passed,  her  suspicions 
of  Willoughby’s  inconstancy,  urging  her  by 
every  plea  of  duty  and  affection  to  demand  from 
Marianne  an  account  of  her  real  situation  with 
respect  to  him. 

Her  letter  was  scarcely  finished,  when  a  rap 
foretold  a  visitor,  and  Colonel  Brandon  was  an¬ 
nounced.  Marianne,  who  had  seen  him  from  the 
window,  and  who  hated  company  of  any  kind, 
left  the  room  before  he  entered  it.  He  looked 
more  than  usually  grave,  and  though  expressing 
satisfaction  at  finding  Miss  Dashwood  alone,  as 
if  he  had  somewhat  in  particular  to  tell  her,  sat 
for  some  time  without  saying  a  word.  Elinor, 
persuaded  that  he  had  some  communication  to 
make  in  which  her  sister  was  concerned,  impa¬ 
tiently  expected  its  opening.  It  was  not  the  first 
time  of  her  feeling  the  same  kind  of  conviction; 
for  more  than  once  before,  beginning  with  the 
observation  of  “Your  sister  looks  unwell  to-day,” 
or  “Your  sister  seems  out  of  spirits,”  he  had 
appeared  on  the  point,  either  of  disclosing,  or  of 
inquiring,  something  particular  about  her.  After 
a  pause  of  several  minutes,  their  silence  was 
broken  by  his  asking  her,  in  a  voice  of  some  agita¬ 
tion,  when  he  was  to  congratulate  her  on  the 

[9] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY, 


acquisition  of  a  brother?  Elinor  was  not  pre¬ 
pared  for  such  a  question,  and  having  no  answer 
ready,  was  obliged  to  adopt  the  simple  and  com¬ 
mon  expedient  of  asking  what  he  meant?  He 
tried  to  smile  as  he  replied,  “Your  sister’s  engage¬ 
ment  to  Mr  Willoughby  is  very  generally 
known.” 

“It  cannot  be  generally  known,”  returned  Eli¬ 
nor,  “for  her  own  family  do  not  know  it.” 

He  looked  surprised,  and  said,  “I  beg  your 
pardon,  I  am  afraid  my  inqiury  has  been  imperti¬ 
nent;  but  I  had  not  supposed  any  secrecy  in¬ 
tended,  as  they  openly  correspond,  and  their  mar¬ 
riage  is  universally  talked  of.” 

“How  can  that  be?  By  whom  can  you  have 
heard  it  mentioned?” 

“By  many — by  some  of  whom  you  know  noth¬ 
ing,  by  others  with  whom  you  are  most  intimate 
— Mrs  Jennings,  Mrs  Palmer,  and  the  Middle- 
tons.  But  still  I  might  not  have  believed  it — for 
where  the  mind  is  perhaps  rather  unwilling  to  be 
convinced,  it  will  always  find  something  to  sup¬ 
port  its  doubts — if  I  had  not,  when  the  servant 
let  me  in  to-day,  accidentally  seen  a  letter  in  his 
hand,  directed  to  Mr  Willoughby  in  your  sister’s 
writing.  I  came  to  inquire,  but  I  was  convinced 
before  I  could  ask  the  question.  Is  everything 
finally  settled?  Is  it  impossible  to — ?  But  I 
have  no  right,  and  I  could  have  no  chance  of  suc- 
[10]  . 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


ceeding. — Excuse  me,  Miss  Dashwood.  I  believe 
I  have  been  wrong  in  saying  so  much,  but  I 
hardly  know  what  to  do,  and  on  your  prudence 
I  have  the  strongest  dependence.  Tell  me  that 
it  is  all  absolutely  resolved  on,  that  any  attempt 
— that  in  short  concealment,  if  concealment  be 
possible,  is  all  that  remains.” 

These  words,  which  conveyed  to  Elinor  a  direct 
avowal  of  his  love  for  her  sister,  affected  her  very 
much.  She  was  not  immediately  able  to  say  any¬ 
thing,  and  even  when  her  spirits  were  recovered, 
she  debated  for  a  short  time  on  the  answer  it 
would  be  most  proper  to  give.  The  real  state  of 
things  between  Willoughby  and  her  sister  was 
so  little  known  to  herself,  that  in  endeavouring 
to  explain  it,  she  might  be  as  liable  to  say  too 
much  as  too  little.  Yet  as  she  was  convinced  that 
Marianne’s  affection  for  Willoughby  could  leave 
no  hope  of  Colonel  Brandon’s  success,  whatever 
the  event  of  that  affection  might  be,  and  at  the 
same  time  wished  to  shield  her  conduct  from  cen¬ 
sure,  she  thought  it  most  prudent  and  kind,  after 
some  consideration,  to  say  more  than  she  really 
knew  or  believed.  She  acknowledged,  therefore, 
that  though  she  had  never  been  informed  by 
themselves  of  the  terms  on  which  they  stood  with 
each  other,  of  their  mutual  affection  she  had  no 
doubt,  and  of  their  correspondence  she  was  not 
astonished  to  hear. 


[11] 


SENSE  AXD  SENSIBILITY 


He  listened  to  her  with  silent  attention,  and 
on  her  ceasing  to  speak,  rose  directly  from  his 
seat,  and  after  saying  in  a  voice  of  emotion,  “To 
your  sister  I  wish  all  imaginable  happiness;  to 
Willoughby,  that  he  may  endeavour  to  deserve 
her/’ — took  leave,  and  went  away. 

Elinor  derived  no  comfortable  feelings  from 
this  conversation  to  lessen  the  uneasiness  of  her 
mind  on  other  points;  she  was  left,  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  with  a  melancholy  impression  of  Colonel 
Brandon’s  unhappiness,  and  was  prevented  from 
even  wishing  it  removed,  by  her  anxiety  for  the 
very  event  that  must  confirm  it. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

NOTHING  occurred  during  the  next  three 
or  four  days  to  make  Elinor  regret  what 
she  had  done  in  applying  to  her  mother; 
for  Willoughby  neither  came  nor  wrote.  They 
were  engaged  about  the  end  of  that  time  to  at¬ 
tend  Lady  Middleton  to  a  party,  from  which  Mrs 
Jennings  was  kept  away  by  the  indisposition  of 
her  youngest  daughter ;  and  for  this  party,  Mari¬ 
anne,  wholly  dispirited,  careless  of  her  appear¬ 
ance,  and  seeming  equally  indifferent  whether 
she  went  or  staid,  prepared,  without  one  look  of 

[12] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


// 


hope,  or  one  expression  of  pleasure.  She  sat  by 
the  drawing-room  fire  after  tea,  till  the  moment 
of  Lady  Middleton’s  arrival,  without  once  stir¬ 
ring  from  her  seat,  or  altering  her  attitude,  lost 
in  her  own  thoughts  and  insensible  of  her  sister’s 
presence:  and  when  at  last  they  were  told  that 
Lady  Middleton  waited  for  them  at  the  door,  she 
started  as  if  she  had  forgotten  that  any  one  was 
expected. 


They  arrived  in  due  time  at  the  place  of  desti¬ 
nation,  and  as  soon  as  the  string  of  carriages 
before  them  would  allow,  alighted,  ascended  the 
stairs,  heard  their  names  announced  from  one 
landing-place  to  another  in  an  audible  voice,  and 
entered  a  room  splendidly  lit  up,  quite  full  of 
company,  and  insufferably  hot.  When  they  had 
paid  their  tribute  of  politeness  by  curtesying  to 
the  lady  of  the  house,  they  were  permitted  to 
mingle  in  the  croud,  and  take  their  share  of  the 
heat  and  inconvenience,  to  which  their  arrival 
must  necessarily  add.  After  some  time  spent  in 
saying  little  and  doing  less,  Lady  Middleton  sat 
down  to  casino,  and  as  Marianne  was  not  in 
spirits  for  moving  about,  she  and  Elinor,  luckily 
succeeding  to  chairs,  placed  themselves  at  no 
great  distance  from  the  table.  - 

They  had  not  remained  in  this  manner  long, 
before  Elinor  perceived  Willoughby,  standing 
within  a  few  yards  of  them,  in  earnest  conversa- 


[13] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


tion  with  a  very  fashionable-looking  young 
woman.  She  soon  caught  his  eye,  and  he  imme¬ 
diately  bowed,  but  without  attempting  to  speak 
to  her,  or  to  approach  Marianne,  though  he  could 
not  but  see  her ;  and  then  continued  his  discourse 
with  the  same  lady.  Elinor  turned  involuntarily 
to  Marianne,  to  see  whether  it  could  be  unob¬ 
served  by  her.  At  that  moment  she  first  per¬ 
ceived  him,  and  her  whole  countenance  glowing 
with  sudden  delight,  she  would  have  moved 
towards  him  instantly,  had  not  her  sister  caught 
hold  of  her. 

“Good  heavens!”  she  exclaimed,  “he  is  there — 
he  is  there.  Oh  why  does  he  not  look  at  me? 
Why  cannot  I  speak  to  him?” 

“Pray,  pray  be  composed,”  cried  Elinor,  “and 
do  not  betray  what  you  f  eel  to  everybody  present. 
Perhaps  he  has  not  observed  you  yet.” 

This,  however,  was  more  than  she  could  believe 
herself,  and  to  be  composed  at  such  a  moment  was 
not  only  beyond  the  reach  of  Marianne,  it  was 
beyond  her  wish.  She  sat  in  an  agony  of  impa¬ 
tience  which  affected  every  feature. 

At  last  he  turned  round  again,  and  regarded 
them  both;  she  started  up,  and  pronouncing  his 
name  in  a  tone  of  aff  ection,  held  out  her  hand  to 
him.  He  approached,  and  addressing  himself 
rather  to  Elinor  than  Marianne,  as  if  wishing  to 
avoid  her  eye,  and  determined  not  to  observe  her 
[14] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

attitude,  inquired  in  a  hurried  manner  after  Mrs 
Dashwood,  and  asked  how  long  they  had  been  in 
town.  Elinor  was  robbed  of  all  presence  of  mind 
by  such  an  address,  and  was  unable  to  say  a  word. 
But  the  feelings  of  her  sister  were  instantly  ex¬ 
pressed.  Her  face  was  crimsoned  over,  and  she 
exclaimed  in  a  voice  of  the  greatest  emotion, 
“Good  God!  Willoughby,  what  is  the  meaning  of 
this?  Have  you  not  received  my  letters?  Will 
you  not  shake  hands  with  me?” 

He  could  not  then  avoid  it,  but  her  touch 
seemed  painful  to  him,  and  he  held  her  hand  only 
for  a  moment.  During  all  this  time  he  was 
evidently  struggling  for  composure.  Elinor 
watched  his  countenance,  and  saw  its  expression 
becoming  more  tranquil.  After  a  moment’s 
pause,  he  spoke  with  calmness. 

“I  did  myself  the  honour  of  calling  in  Berke- 
ley-street  last  Tuesday,  and  very  much  regretted 
that  I  was  not  fortunate  enough  to  find  your¬ 
selves  and  Mrs  Jennings  at  home.  My  card  was 
not  lost,  I  hope.” 

“But  have  you  not  received  my  notes?”  cried 
Marianne  in  the  wildest  anxiety.  “Here  is  some 
mistake,  I  am  sure — some  dreadful  mistake. 
What  can  be  the  meaning  of  it?  Tell  me,  Wil¬ 
loughby — for  heaven’s  sake,  tell  me,  what  is  the 
matter?” 

He  made  no  reply;  his  complexion  changed 

[15] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


and  all  his  embarrassment  returned ;  but  as  if,  on 
catching  the  eye  of  the  young  lady  with  whom 
he  had  been  previously  talking,  he  felt  the  neces¬ 
sity  of  instant  exertion,  he  recovered  himself 
again,  and  after  saying,  “Yes,  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  receiving  the  information  of  your  arrival  in 
town,  which  you  were  so  good  as  to  send  to  me,” 
turned  hastily  away  with  a  slight  bow  and  joined 
his  friend. 

Marianne,  now  looking  dreadfully  white,  and 
unable  to  stand,  sunk  into  her  chair,  and  Elinor, 
expecting  every  moment  to  see  her  faint,  tried  to 
screen  her  from  the  observation  of  others,  while 
reviving  her  with  lavender  water. 

“Go  to  him,  Elinor,”  she  said,  as  soon  as  she 
could  speak,  “and  force  him  to  come  to  me.  Tell 
him  I  must  see  him  again — must  speak  to  him 
instantly.  I  cannot  rest — I  shall  not  have  a 
moment’s  peace  till  this  is  explained — some 
dreadful  misapprehension  or  other.  Oh,  go  to 
him  this  moment.” 

“How  can  that  be  done?  No,  my  dearest 
Marianne,  you  must  wait.  This  is  not  a  place  for 
explanations.  Wait  only  till  to-morrow.” 

With  difficulty,  however,  could  she  prevent  her 
from  following  him  herself;  and  to  persuade  her 
to  check  her  agitation — to  wait,  at  least,  with  the 
appearance  of  composure — till  she  might  speak 
to  him  with  more  privacy  and  more  effect,  was 
[16] 


SEXSE  AXD  SEXSIBILITY 


impossible:  for  Marianne  continued  incessantly 
to  give  way  in  a  low  voice  to  the  misery  of  her 
feelings,  by  exclamations  of  wretchedness.  In  a 
short  time  Elinor  saw  Willoughby  quit  the  room 
by  the  door  towards  the  staircase,  and  telling 
Marianne  that  he  was  gone,  urged  the  impossi¬ 
bility  of  speaking  to  him  again  that  evening,  as  a 
fresh  argument  for  her  to  be  calm.  She  instantly 
begged  her  sister  would  entreat  Lady  Middleton 
to  take  them  home,  as  she  was  too  miserable  to 
stay  a  minute  longer. 

Lady  Middleton,  though  in  a  middle  of  a  rub¬ 
ber,  on  being  informed  that  Marianne  was  un¬ 
well,  was  too  polite  to  object  for  a  moment  to  her 
wish  of  going  away,  and  making  over  her  cards 
to  a  friend,  they  departed  as  soon  as  the  carriage 
could  be  found.  Scarcely  a  word  was  spoken 
during  their  return  to  Berkeley-street.  [Mari¬ 
anne  was  in  a  silent  agony,  too  much  oppressed 
even  for  tears;  but  as  [Mrs  Jennings  was  luckily 
not  come  home,  they  could  go  directly  to  their 
own  room,  where  hartshorn  restored  her  a  little 
to  herself.  She  was  soon  undressed  and  in  bed, 
and  as  she  seemed  desirous  of  being  alone,  her 
sister  then  left  her,  and  while  she  waited  the 
return  of  Mrs  Jennings,  had  leisure  enough  for 
thinking  over  the  past. 

That  some  kind  of  engagement  had  subsisted 
between  Willoughby  and  [Marianne,  she  could 

2  *  [M] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


not  doubt ;  and  that  Willoughby  was  weary  of  it, 
seemed  equally  clear;  for  however  Marianne 
might  still  feed  her  own  wishes,  she  could  not 
attribute  such  behaviour  to  mistake  or  misappre¬ 
hension  of  any  kind.  Nothing  but  a  thorough 
change  of  sentiment  could  account  for  it.  Her 
indignation  would  have  been  still  stronger  than 
it  was,  had  she  not  witnessed  that  embarrassment 
which  seemed  to  speak  a  consciousness  of  his  own 
misconduct,  and  prevented  her  from  believing 
him  so  unprincipled  as  to  have  been  sporting  with 
the  affections  of  her  sister  from  the  first,  with¬ 
out  any  design  that  would  bear  investigation. 
Absence  might  have  weakened  his  regard,  and 
convenience  might  have  determined  him  to  over¬ 
come  it,  but  that  such  a  regard  had  formerly 
existed  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  doubt. 

As  for  Marianne,  on  the  pangs  which  so  un¬ 
happy  a  meeting  must  already  have  given  her, 
and  on  those  still  more  severe  which  might  await 
her  in  its  probable  consequence,  she  could  not 
reflect  without  the  deepest  concern.  Her  own 
situation  gained  in  the  comparison;  for  while  she 
could  esteem  Edward  as  much  as  ever,  however 
they  might  be  divided  in  future,  her  mind  might 
be  always  supported.  But  every  circumstance 
that  could  embitter  such  an  evil  seemed  uniting  to 
heighten  the  misery  of  Marianne  in  a  final  sepa¬ 
ration  from  Willoughby — in  an  immediate  and 
irreconcileable  rupture  with  him. 

[18] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


BEFORE  the  house-maid  had  lit  their  fire 
the  next  day,  or  the  sun  gained  any  power 
over  a  cold,  gloomy  morning  in  January, 
Marianne,  only  half  dressed,  was  kneeling  against 
one  of  the  window-seats  for  the  sake  of  all  the 
little  light  she  could  command  from  it,  and  writ¬ 
ing  as  fast  as  a  continual  flow  of  tears  would 
permit  her.  In  this  situation,  Elinor,  roused 
from  sleep  by  her  agitation  and  sobs,  first  per¬ 
ceived  her;  and  after  observing  her  for  a  few 
moments  with  silent  anxiety,  said,  in  a  tone  of 
the  most  considerate  gentleness — 

“Marianne,  may  I  ask?” 

“No,  Elinor,”  she  replied,  “ask  nothing;  you 
will  soon  know  all.” 

The  sort  of  desperate  calmness  with  which  this 
was  said  lasted  no  longer  than  while  she  spoke, 
and  was  immediately  followed  by  a  return  of  the 
same  excessive  affliction.  It  was  some  minutes 
before  she  could  go  on  with  her  letter,  and  the 
frequent  bursts  of  grief  which  still  obliged  her, 
at  intervals,  to  withhold  her  pen,  were  proofs 
enough  of  her  feeling  how  more  than  probable  it 
was  that  she  was  writing  for  the  last  time  to 
Willoughby. 

Elinor  paid  her  every  quiet  and  unobtrusive  at- 

[19] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


tention  in  her  power ;  and  she  would  have  tried  to 
soothe  and  tranquillize  her  still  more,  had  not 
Marianne  entreated  her,  with  all  the  eagerness  of 
the  most  nervous  irritability,  not  to  speak  to  her 
for  the  world.  In  such  circumstances,  it  was 
better  for  both  that  they  should  not  be  long 
together;  and  the  restless  state  of  Marianne’s 
mind  not  only  prevented  her  from  remaining  in 
the  room  a  moment  after  she  was  dressed,  but 
requiring  at  once  solitude  and  continual  change 
of  place,  made  her  wander  about  the  house  till 
breakfast  time,  avoiding  the  sight  of  everybody. 

At  breakfast  she  neither  ate  nor  attempted  to 
eat  anything ;  and  Elinor’s  attention  was  then  all 
employed,  not  in  urging  her,  not  in  pitying  her, 
nor  in  appearing  to  regard  her,  but  in  endeavour¬ 
ing  to  engage  Mrs  Jennings’s  notice  entirely  to 
herself. 

As  this  was  a  favourite  meal  with  Mrs  Jen¬ 
nings,  it  lasted  a  considerable  time,  and  they  were 
just  setting  themselves,  after  it,  round  the  com¬ 
mon  work  table,  when  a  letter  was  delivered  to 
Marianne,  which  she  eagerly  caught  from  the 
servant,  and,  turning  of  a  death-like  paleness, 
instantly  ran  out  of  the  room.  Elinor,  who  saw 
as  plainly  by  this,  as  if  she  had  seen  the  direction, 
that  it  must  come  from  Willoughby,  felt  imme¬ 
diately  such  a  sickness  at  heart  as  made  her  hardly 
able  to  hold  up  her  head,  and  sat  in  such  a  gen- 
[20] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


eral  tremour  as  made  her  fear  it  impossible  to 
escape  Mrs  Jennings’s  notice.  That  good  lady, 
however,  saw  only  that  Marianne  had  received  a 
letter  from  Willoughby,  which  appeared  to  her 
a  very  good  joke,  and  which  she  treated  accord¬ 
ingly,  by  hoping,  with  a  laugh,  that  she  would 
find  it  to  her  liking.  Of  Elinor’s  distress,  she 
was  too  busily  employed  in  measuring  lengths  of 
worsted  for  her  rug,  to  see  anything  at  all;  and 
calmly  continuing  her  talk,  as  soon  as  Marianne 
disappeared,  she  said — 

“Upon  my  word,  I  never  saw  a  young  woman 
so  desperately  in  love  in  my  life!  My  girls  were 
nothing  to  her,  and  yet  they  used  to  be  foolish 
enough;  but  as  for  Miss  Marianne,  she  is  quite 
an  altered  creature.  I  hope,  from  the  bottom  of 
my  heart,  he  won’t  keep  her  waiting  much  longer, 
for  it  is  quite  grievous  to  see  her  look  so  ill  and 
forlorn.  Pray,  when  are  they  to  be  married?” 

Elinor,  though  never  less  disposed  to  speak 
than  at  that  moment,  obliged  herself  to  answer 
such  an  attack  as  this,  and,  therefore,  trying  to 
smile,  replied,  “And  have  you  really,  ma’am, 
talked  yourself  into  a  persuasion  of  my  sister’s 
being  engaged  to  Mr  Willoughby?  I  thought 
it  had  been  only  a  joke,  but  so  serious  a  question 
seems  to  imply  more:  and  I  must  beg,  therefore, 
that  you  will  not  deceive  yourself  any  longer.  I 
do  assure  you  that  nothing  would  surprise  me 

[21] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


more  than  to  hear  of  their  being  going  to  be 
married.” 

“For  shame,  for  shame,  Miss  Dashwood! 
How  can  you  talk  so !  Don’t  we  all  know  that  it 
must  be  a  match — that  they  were  over  head  and 
ears  in  love  with  each  other  from  the  first  moment 
they  met  ?  Did  not  I  see  them  together  in  Devon¬ 
shire  every  day,  and  all  day  long  ?  And  did  not 
I  know  that  your  sister  came  to  town  with  me  on 
purpose  to  buy  wedding  clothes?  Come,  come, 
this  won’t  do.  Because  you  are  so  sly  about  it 
yourself,  you  think  nobody  else  has  any  senses; 
but  it  is  no  such  thing,  I  can  tell  you,  for  it  has 
been  known  all  over  the  town  this  ever  so  long. 
I  tell  everybody  of  it,  and  so  does  Charlotte.” 

“Indeed,  ma’am,”  said  Elinor  very  seriously, 
“you  are  mistaken.  Indeed,  you  are  doing  a  very 
unkind  thing  in  spreading  the  report,  and  you 
will  find  that  you  have,  though  you  will  not  be¬ 
lieve  me  now.” 

Mrs  Jennings  laughed  again,  but  Elinor  had 
not  spirits  to  say  more,  and  eager  at  all  events  to 
know  what  Willoughby  had  written,  hurried 
away  to  their  room,  where,  on  opening  the  door, 
she  saw  Marianne  stretched  on  the  bed,  almost 
choked  by  grief,  one  letter  in  her  hand,  and  two 
or  three  others  lying  by  her.  Elinor  drew  near, 
but  without  saying  a  word;  and  seating  herself 
on  the  bed,  took  her  hand,  kissed  her  affection- 
[22] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


ately  several  times,  and  then  gave  way  to  a  burst 
of  tears,  which  at  first  was  scarcely  less  violent 
than  Marianne’s.  The  latter,  though  unable  to 
speak,  seemed  to  feel  all  the  tenderness  of  this 
behaviour,  and  after  some  time  thus  spent  in 
joint  affliction,  she  put  all  the  letters  into  Elinor’s 
hands;  and  then  covering  her  face  with  her  hand¬ 
kerchief,  almost  screamed  with  agony.  Elinor, 
who  knew  that  such  grief,  shocking  as  it  was  to 
witness  it,  must  have  its  course,  watched  by  her  till 
this  excess  of  suffering  had  somewhat  spent 
itself,  and  then  turning  eagerly  to  Willoughby’s 
letter,  read  as  follows : — 

Bond  Street,  January. 

My  Dear  Madam, — I  have  just  had  the 
honour  of  receiving  your  letter,  for  which  I  beg 
to  return  my  sincere  acknowledgments.  I  am 
much  concerned  to  find  there  was  anything  in 
my  behaviour  last  night  that  did  not  meet  your 
approbation;  and  though  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to 
discover  in  what  point  I  could  be  so  unfortunate 
as  to  offend  you,  I  entreat  your  forgiveness  of 
what  I  can  assure  you  to  have  been  perfectly 
unintentional.  I  shall  never  reflect  on  my  former 
acquaintance  with  your  family  in  Devonshire 
without  the  most  grateful  pleasure,  and  flatter 
myself  it  will  not  be  broken  by  any  mistake  or 
misapprehension  of  my  actions.  My  esteem  for 

[23] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


your  whole  family  is  very  sincere;  but  if  I  have 
been  so  unfortunate  as  to  give  rise  to  a  belief  of 
more  than  I  felt,  or  meant  to  express,  I  shall 
reproach  myself  for  not  having  been  more 
guarded  in  my  professions  of  that  esteem.  That 
I  should  ever  have  meant  more,  you  will  allow  to 
be  impossible,  when  you  understand  that  my 
affections  have  been  long  engaged  elsewhere,  and 
it  will  not  be  many  weeks,  I  believe,  before  this 
engagement  is  fulfilled.  It  is  with  great  regret 
that  I  obey  your  commands  of  returning  the  let¬ 
ters  with  which  I  have  been  honoured  from  you, 
and  the  lock  of  hair  which  you  so  obligingly 
bestowed  on  me. 

I  am,  dear  Madam, 

Your  most  obedient 
humble  servant, 

John  Willoughby. 

With  what  indignation  such  a  letter  as  this 
must  be  read  by  Miss  Dashwood,  may  be  imag¬ 
ined.  Though  aware,  before  she  began  it,  that  it 
must  bring  a  confession  of  his  inconstancy,  and 
confirm  their  separation  for  ever,  she  was  not 
aware  that  such  language  could  be  suffered  to 
announce  it!  nor  could  she  have  supposed  Wil¬ 
loughby  capable  of  departing  so  far  from  the 
appearance  of  every  honourable  and  delicate 
feeling — so  far  from  the  common  decorum  of  a 
[24] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


gentleman,  as  to  send  a  letter  so  impudently 
cruel:  a  letter  which,  instead  of  bringing  with 
his  desire  of  a  release  any  professions  of  regret, 
acknowledged  no  breach  of  faith,  denied  all 
peculiar  affection  whatever — a  letter  of  which 
every  line  was  an  insult,  and  which  proclaimed  its 
writer  to  be  deep  in  hardened  villany. 

She  paused  over  it  for  some  time  with  indignant 
astonishment;  then  read  it  again  and  again;  but 
every  perusal  only  served  to  increase  her  abhor¬ 
rence  of  the  man,  and  so  bitter  were  her  feelings 
against  him,  that  she  dared  not  trust  herself  to 
speak,  lest  she  might  wound  Marianne  still 
deeper  by  treating  their  disengagement,  not  as  a 
loss  to  her  of  any  possible  good,  but  as  an  escape 
from  the  worst  and  most  irremediable  of  evils,  a 
connection  for  life,  with  an  unprincipled  man,  as 
a  deliverance  the  most  real,  a  blessing  the  most 
important. 

In  her  earnest  meditations  on  the  contents  of 
the  letter,  on  the  depravity  of  that  mind  which 
could  dictate  it,  and,  probably,  on  the  very  dif¬ 
ferent  mind  of  a  very  different  person,  who  had 
no  other  connection  whatever  with  the  aff  air  than 
what  her  heart  gave  him  with  everything  that 
passed,  Elinor  forgot  the  immediate  distress  of 
her  sister,  forgot  that  she  had  three  letters  on  her 
lap  yet  unread,  and  so  entirely  forgot  how  long 
she  had  been  in  the  room,  that  when,  on  hearing 

[25] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


a  carriage  drive  up  to  the  door,  she  went  to  the 
window  to  see  who  could  be  coming  so  unreason¬ 
ably  early,  she  was  all  astonishment  to  perceive 
Mrs  Jennings’s  chariot,  which  she  knew  had  not 
been  ordered  till  one.  Determined  not  to  quit 
Marianne,  though  hopeless  of  contributing.,  at 
present,  to  her  ease,  she  hurried  away  to  excuse 
herself  from  attending  Mrs  Jennings,  on  account 
of  her  sister  being  indisposed.  Mrs  Jennings, 
with  a  thoroughly  good-humoured  concern  for 
its  cause,  admitted  the  excuse  most  readily,  and 
Elinor,  after  seeing  her  safe  off,  returned  to 
Marianne,  whom  she  found  attempting  to  rise 
from  the  bed,  and  whom  she  reached  just  in  time 
to  prevent  her  from  falling  on  the  floor,  faint 
and  giddy  from  a  long  want  of  proper  rest  and 
food;  for  it  was  many  days  since  she  had  any 
appetite,  and  many  nights  since  she  had  really 
slept;  and  now,  when  her  mind  was  no  longer 
supported  by  the  fever  of  suspense,  the  conse¬ 
quence  of  all  this  was  felt  in  an  aching  head,  a 
weakened  stomach,  and  general  nervous  faint¬ 
ness.  A  glass  of  wine,  which  Elinor  procured 
for  her  directly,  made  her  more  comfortable,  and 
she  was  at  last  able  to  express  some  sense  of  her 
kindness,  by  saying — 

“Poor  Elinor !  How  unhappy  I  make  you !” 

“I  only  wish,”  replied  her  sister,  “there  were 
anything  I  could  do  which  might  be  of  comfort 
to  you.” 

[26] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


This,  as  everything  else  would  have  been,  was 
too  much  for  Marianne,  who  could  only  exclaim, 
in  the  anguish  of  her  heart,  “O  Elinor,  I  am 
miserable  indeed,”  before  her  voice  was  entirely 
lost  in  sobs. 

Elinor  could  no  longer  witness  this  torrent  of 
unresisted  grief  in  silence. 

“Exert  yourself,  dear  Marianne,”  she  cried, 
“if  you  would  not  kill  yourself  and  all  who  love 
you.  Think  of  your  mother ;  think  of  her  misery 
while  you  suffer;  for  her  sake  you  must  exert 
yourself.” 

“I  cannot,  I  cannot,”  cried  Marianne;  “leave 
me,  leave  me,  if  I  distress  you ;  leave  me,  hate  me, 
forget  me;  but  do  not  torture  me  so.  Oh! 
how  easy  for  those  who  have  no  sorrow  of  their 
own  to  talk  of  exertion !  Happy,  happy  Elinor, 
you  cannot  have  an  idea  of  what  I  suffer.” 

“Do  you  call  me  happy,  Marianne!  Ah;  if 
you  knew !  And  can  you  believe  me  to  be  so  while 
I  see  you  so  wretched!” 

“Forgive  me,  forgive  me,”  throwing  her  arms 
round  her  sister’s  neck;  “I  know  you  feel  for  me; 
I  know  what  a  heart  you  have ;  but  yet  you  are — 
you  must  be  happy;  Edward  loves  you — what, 
oh!  what  can  do  away  such  happiness  as  that!” 

“Many,  many  circumstances,”  said  Elinor  sol¬ 
emnly. 

“No,  no,  no,”  cried  Marianne  wildly;  “he  loves 
you,  and  only  you.  You  can  have  no  grief.” 

[27] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“I  can  have  no  pleasure  while  I  see  you  in  this 
state.” 

“And  you  will  never  see  me  otherwise.  Mine 
is  a  misery  which  nothing  can  do  away.” 

“You  must  not  talk  so,  Marianne.  Have  you 
no  comforts?  no  friends?  Is  your  loss  such  as 
leaves  no  opening  for  consolation?  Much  as  you 
suffer  now,  think  of  what  you  would  have  suf¬ 
fered  if  the  discovery  of  his  character  had  been 
delayed  to  a  later  period — if  your  engagement 
had  been  carried  on  for  months  and  months,  as  it 
might  have  been,  before  he  chose  to  put  an  end 
to  it.  Every  additional  day  of  unhappy  confi¬ 
dence,  on  your  side,  would  have  made  the  blow 
more  dreadful.” 

“Engagement !”  cried  Marianne,  “there  has 
been  no  engagement.” 

“No  engagement!” 

“No,  he  is  not  so  unworthy  as  you  believe  him. 
He  has  broken  no  faith  with  me.” 

“But  he  told  you  that  he  loved  you?” 

“Yes — no — never — absolutely.  It  was  every 
day  implied,  but  never  professedly  declared. 
Sometimes  I  thought  it  had  been — but  it  never 
was.” 

“Yet  you  wrote  to  him?” 

“Yes — could  that  be  wrong  after  all  that  had 
passed?  But  I  cannot  talk.” 

Elinor  said  no  more,  and  turning  again  to  the 

[28] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


three  letters  which  now  raised  a  much  stronger 
curiosity  than  before,  directly  ran  over  the  con¬ 
tents  of  all.  The  first,  which  was  what  her  sister 
had  sent  him  on  their  arrival  in  town,  was  to  this 
eff  ect — 

“Berkeley  Street,  January . 

“How  surprised  you  will  be,  Willoughby,  on 
receiving  this!  and  I  think  you  will  feel  some¬ 
thing  more  than  surprise,  when  you  know  I  am 
in  town.  An  opportunity  of  coming  hither, 
though  with  Mrs  Jennings,  was  a  temptation  we 
could  not  resist.  I  wish  you  may  receive  this  in 
time  to  come  here  to-night,  but  I  will  not  depend 
on  it.  At  any  rate  I  shall  expect  you  to-morrow. 
For  the  present,  adieu.  M.  D.” 

Her  second  note,  which  had  been  written  on 
the  morning  after  the  dance  at  the  Middletons’, 
was  in  these  words — 

“I  cannot  express  my  disappointment  in  hav¬ 
ing  missed  you  the  day  before  yesterday,  nor  my 
astonishment  at  not  having  received  any  answer 
to  a  note  which  I  sent  you  above  a  week  ago.  I 
have  been  expecting  to  hear  from  you,  and  still 
more  to  see  you,  every  hour  of  the  day.  Pray 
call  again  as  soon  as  possible,  and  explain  the 
reason  of  my  having  expected  this  in  vain.  You 
had  better  come  earlier  another  time,  because  we 
are  generally  out  by  one.  We  were  last  night  at 

[29] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Lady  Middleton’s  where  there  was  a  dance.  I 
have  been  told  that  you  were  asked  to  be  of  the 
party.  But  could  it  be  so?  You  must  be  very 
much  altered  indeed  since  we  parted,  if  that 
could  be  the  case,  and  you  not  there.  But  I  will 
not  suppose  this  possible,  and  I  hope  very  soon 
to  receive  your  personal  assurance  of  its  being 
otherwise.  M.  D.” 

The  contents  of  her  last  note  to  him  were 
these — 

“What  am  I  to  imagine,  Willoughby,  by  your 
behaviour  last  night?  Again  I  demand  an  expla¬ 
nation  of  it.  I  was  prepared  to  meet  you  with 
the  pleasure  which  our  separation  naturally  pro¬ 
duced,  with  the  familiarity  which  our  intimacy  at 
Barton  appeared  to  me  to  justify.  I  was  re¬ 
pulsed  indeed!  I  have  passed  a  wretched  night 
in  endeavouring  to  excuse  a  conduct  which  can 
scarcely  be  called  less  than  insulting ;  but  though 
I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  form  any  reasonable 
apology  for  your  behaviour,  I  am  perfectly  ready 
to  hear  your  justification  of  it.  You  have  per¬ 
haps  been  misinformed,  or  purposely  deceived, 
in  something  concerning  me,  which  may  have 
lowered  me  in  your  opinion.  Tell  me  what  it  is, 
explain  the  grounds  on  which  you  acted,  and  I 
shall  be  satisfied  in  being  able  to  satisfy  you.  It 
would  grieve  me  indeed  to  be  obliged  to  think  ill 
[30] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


of  you ;  but  if  I  am  to  do  it,  if  I  am  to  learn  that 
you  are  not  what  we  have  hitherto  believed  you, 
that  your  regard  for  us  all  was  insincere,  that 
your  behaviour  to  me  was  intended  only  to  de¬ 
ceive,  let  it  be  told  as  soon  as  possible.  My  feel¬ 
ings  are  at  present  in  a  state  of  dreadful  inde¬ 
cision;  I  wish  to  acquit  you,  but  certainty  on 
either  side  will  be  ease  to  what  I  now  suffer.  If 
your  sentiments  are  no  longer  what  they  were, 
you  will  return  my  notes,  and  the  lock  of  my  hair 
which  is  in  your  possession.  M.  D.” 

That  such  letters,  so  full  of  affection  and  confi¬ 
dence,  could  have  been  so  answered,  Elinor,  for 
Willoughby’s  sake,  would  have  been  unwilling  to 
believe.  But  her  condemnation  of  him  did  not 
blind  her  to  the  impropriety  of  their  having  been 
written  at  all;  and  she  was  silently  grieving  over 
the  imprudence  which  had  hazarded  such  unso¬ 
licited  proofs  of  tenderness,  not  warranted  by 
anything  preceding,  and  most  severely  con¬ 
demned  by  the  event,  when  Marianne,  perceiving 
that  she  had  finished  the  letters,  observed  to  her 
that  they  contained  nothing  but  what  any  one 
would  have  written  in  the  same  situation. 

“I  felt  myself,”  she  added,  “to  be  as  solemnly 
engaged  to  him  as  if  the  strictest  legal  covenant 
had  bound  us  to  each  other.” 

“I  can  believe  it,”  said  Elinor;  “but  unfortu¬ 
nately,  he  did  not  feel  the  same.” 


[31] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“He  did  feel  the  same,  Elinor — for  weeks  and 

weeks  he  felt  it.  I  know  he  did.  Whatever  may 

«/ 

have  changed  him  now  (and  nothing  but  the 
blackest  art  employed  against  me  can  have  done 
it),  I  was  once  as  dear  to  him  as  my  own  soul 
could  wish.  This  lock  of  hair,  which  now  he  can 
so  readily  give  up,  was  begged  of  me  with  the 
most  earnest  supplication.  Had  you  seen  his 
look,  his  manner,  had  you  heard  his  voice  at  that 
moment!  Have  you  forgot  the  last  evening  of 
our  being  together  at  Barton?  The  morning  that 
we  parted  too?  When  he  told  me  that  it  might 
be  many  weeks  before  we  met  again — his  distress 
— can  I  ever  forget  his  distress!” 

For  a  moment  or  two  she  could  say  no  more; 
but  when  this  emotion  had  passed  away,  she 
added,  in  a  firmer  tone — 

“Elinor,  I  have  been  cruelly  used,  but  not  by 
Willoughby.” 

“Dearest  Marianne,  who  but  himself?  By 
whom  can  he  have  been  instigated?” 

“By  all  the  world,  rather  than  by  his  own  heart. 
I  could  rather  believe  every  creature  of  my 
acquaintance  leagued  together  to  ruin  me  in  his 
opinion,  than  believe  his  nature  capable  of  such 
cruelty.  This  woman  of  whom  he  writes — who¬ 
ever  she  be — or  any  one,  in  short,  but  your  own 
dear  self,  mama,  and  Edward,  may  have  been  so 
barbarous  to  belie  me.  Beyond  you  three,  is  there 
[32] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


a  creature  in  the  world  whom  I  would  not  rather 
suspect  of  evil  than  Willoughby,  whose  heart  I 
know  so  well?” 

Elinor  would  not  contend,  and  only  replied, 
“Whoever  may  have  been  so  detestably  your 
enemy,  let  them  be  cheated  of  their  malignant  tri¬ 
umph,  my  dear  sister,  by  seeing  how  nobly  the 
consciousness  of  your  own  innocence  and  good 
intentions  supports  your  spirits.  It  is  a  reason¬ 
able  and  laudable  pride  which  resists  such  malev¬ 
olence.” 

“No,  no,”  cried  Marianne,  “misery  such  as  mine 
has  no  pride.  I  care  not  who  knows  that  I  am 
wretched.  The  triumph  of  seeing  me  so  may 
be  open  to  all  the  world.  Elinor,  Elinor,  they 
who  suffer  little  may  be  proud  and  independent 
as  they  like — may  resist  insult,  or  return  morti¬ 
fication — but  I  cannot.  I  must  feel — I  must  be 
wretched — and  they  are  welcome  to  enjoy  the 
consciousness  of  it  that  can.” 

“But  for  my  mother’s  sake  and  mine — ” 

“I  would  do  more  than  for  my  own.  But  to 
appear  happy  when  I  am  so  miserable — Oh !  who 
can  require  it?” 

Again  they  were  both  silent.  Elinor  was  em¬ 
ployed  in  walking  thoughtfully  from  the  fire 
to  the  window,  from  the  window  to  the  fire,  with¬ 
out  knowing  that  she  received  warmth  from  one, 
or  discerning  objects  through  the  other;  and 

[33] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Marianne,  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  with  her 
head  leaning  against  one  of  its  posts,  again  took 
up  Willoughby’s  letter,  and  after  shuddering 
over  every  sentence,  exclaimed — 

“It  is  too  much!  O  Willoughby,  Willoughby, 
could  this  be  yours!  Cruel,  cruel — nothing  can 
acquit  you.  Elinor,  nothing  can.  Whatever  he 
might  have  heard  against  me — ought  he  not  to 
have  suspended  his  belief?  ought  he  not  to  have 
told  me  of  it,  to  have  given  me  the  power  of 
clearing  myself?  ‘The  lock  of  hair’  (repeating 
it  from  the  letter),  ‘which  you  so  obligingly  be¬ 
stowed  on  me’ — that  is  unpardonable.  Wil¬ 
loughby,  where  was  your  heart,  when  you  wrote 
those  words  ?  Oh,  barbarously  insolent ! — Elinor, 
can  he  be  justified?” 

“No,  Marianne,  in  no  possible  way.” 

“And  yet  this  woman — who  knows  what  her 
art  may  have  been — how  long  it  may  have  been 
premeditated,  and  how  deeply  contrived  by  her! 
— Who  is  she? — Who  can  she  be? — Whom  did  I 
ever  hear  him  talk  of  as  young  and  attractive 
among  his  f  emale  acquaintance  ?  Oh !  no  one,  no 
one — he  talked  to  me  only  of  myself.” 

Another  pause  ensued;  Marianne  was  greatly 
agitated,  and  it  ended  thus — 

“Elinor,  I  must  go  home.  I  must  go  and  com- 
f  ort  mama.  Cannot  we  be  gone  to-morrow  ?” 
“To-morrow,  Marianne!” 

[34] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“Yes;  why  should  I  stay  here?  I  came  only 
for  Willoughby’s  sake — and  now  who  cares  for 
me?  Who  regards  me?” 

“It  would  be  impossible  to  go  to-morrow.  We 
owe  Mrs  Jennings  much  more  than  civility;  and 
civility  of  the  commonest  kind  must  prevent  such 
a  hasty  removal  as  that.” 

“Well,  then,  another  day  or  two  perhaps;  but 
I  cannot  stay  here  long,  I  cannot  stay  to  endure 
the  questions  and  remarks  of  all  these  people. 
The  Middletons  and  Palmers — how  am  I  to  bear 
their  pity?  The  pity  of  such  a  woman  as  Lady 
Middleton! — oh!  what  would  he  say  to  that!” 

Elinor  advised  her  to  lie  down  again,  and  for  a 
moment  she  did  so;  but  no  attitude  could  give 
her  ease,  and  in  restless  pain  of  mind  and  body 
she  moved  from  one  posture  to  another,  till  grow¬ 
ing  more  and  more  hysterical,  her  sister  could 
with  difficulty  keep  her  on  the  bed  at  all,  and  for 
some  time  was  fearful  of  being  constrained  to 
call  for  assistance.  Some  lavender  drops,  how¬ 
ever,  which  she  was  at  length  persuaded  to  take, 
were  of  use;  and  from  that  time  till  Mrs  Jennings 
returned,  she  continued  on  the  bed  quiet  and 
motionless. 


[35] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


CHAPTER  XXX 

MRS  Jennings  came  immediately  to  their 
room  on  her  return,  and  without  waiting 
to  have  her  request  of  admittance 
answered,  opened  the  door  and  walked  in  with  a 
look  of  real  concern. 

“How  do  you  do,  my  dear?”  said  she,  in  a  voice 
of  great  compassion,  to  Marianne,  who  turned 
away  her  face  without  attempting  to  answer. 

“How  is  she,  Miss  Dash  wood?  Poor  thing !  she 
looks  very  bad.  No  wonder.  Aye,  it  is  but  too 
true.  He  is  to  be  married  very  soon — a  good- 
for-nothing  fellow!  I  have  no  patience  with  him. 
Mrs  Taylor  told  me  of  it  half  an  hour  ago,  and 
she  was  told  it  by  a  particular  friend  of  Miss 
Grey  herself,  else  I  am  sure  I  should  not  have 
believed  it;  and  I  was  almost  ready  to  sink  as  it 
was.  Well,  said  I,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  if  it  is 
true,  he  has  used  a  young  lady  of  my  acquaint¬ 
ance  abominably  ill,  and  I  wish  with  all  my  soul 
his  wife  may  plague  his  heart  out.  And  so  I 
shall  always  say,  my  dear,  you  may  depend  on  it. 
I  have  no  notion  of  men’s  going  on  in  this  way; 
and  if  ever  I  meet  him  again  I  will  give  him  such 
a  dressing  as  he  has  not  had  this  many  a  day. 
But  there  is  one  comfort,  my  dear  Miss  Mari¬ 
anne  ;  he  is  not  the  only  young  man  in  the  world 
[36] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


worth  having;  and  with  your  pretty  face  you  will 
never  want  admirers.  Well,  poor  thing!  I  won’t 
disturb  her  any  longer,  for  she  had  better  have 
her  cry  out  at  once  and  have  done  with  it.  The 
Parrys  and  Sandersons  luckily  are  coming  to¬ 
night,  you  know,  and  that  will  amuse  her.” 

She  then  went  away,  walking  on  tiptoe  out  of 
the  room,  as  if  she  supposed  her  young  friend’s 
affliction  could  be  increased  by  noise. 

Marianne,  to  the  surprise  of  her  sister,  deter¬ 
mined  on  dining  with  them.  Elinor  even  advised 
her  against  it.  But  “no,  she  would  go  down;  she 
could  bear  it  very  well,  and  the  bustle  about  her 
would  be  less.”  Elinor,  pleased  to  have  her  gov¬ 
erned  for  a  moment  by  such  a  motive,  though 
believing  it  hardly  possible  that  she  could  sit  out 
the  dinner,  said  no  more;  and  adjusting  her  dress 
for  her  as  well  as  she  could  while  Marianne  still 
remained  on  the  bed,  was  ready  to  assist  her  into 
the  dining-room  as  soon  as  they  were  summoned 
to  it. 

When  there,  though  looking  most  wretchedly, 
she  ate  more  and  was  calmer  than  her  sister  had 
expected.  Had  she  tried  to  speak,  or  had  she 
been  conscious  of  half  Mrs  Jennings’s  well-meant 
but  ill-judged  attentions  to  her,  this  calmness 
could  not  have  been  maintained;  but  not  a  syl¬ 
lable  escaped  her  lips,  and  the  abstraction  of  her 
thoughts  preserved  her  in  ignorance  of  every¬ 
thing  that  was  passing  before  her. 


[37] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Elinor,  who  did  justice  to  Mrs  Jennings’s  kind¬ 
ness,  though  its  effusions  were  often  distressing, 
and  sometimes  almost  ridiculous,  made  her  those 
acknowledgments,  and  returned  her  those  civili¬ 
ties,  which  her  sister  could  not  make  or  return  for 
herself.  Their  good  friend  saw  that  Marianne 
was  unhappy,  and  felt  that  everything  was  due 
to  her  which  might  make  her  at  all  less  so.  She 
treated  her,  therefore,  with  all  the  indulgent 
fondness  of  a  parent  towards  a  favourite  child 
on  the  last  day  of  its  holidays.  Marianne  was  to 
have  the  best  place  by  the  fire,  was  to  be  tempted 
to  eat  by  every  delicacy  in  the  house,  and  to  be 
amused  by  the  relation  of  all  the  news  of  the  day. 
Had  not  Elinor,  in  the  sad  countenance  of  her 
sister,  seen  a  check  to  all  mirth,  she  could  have 
been  entertained  by  Mrs  Jennings’s  endeavours 
to  cure  a  disappointment  in  love,  by  a  variety  of 
sweetmeats  and  olives,  and  a  good  fire.  As  soon, 
however,  as  the  consciousness  of  all  this  was 
forced  by  continual  repetition  on  Marianne,  she 
could  stay  no  longer.  With  an  hasty  exclamation 
of  misery,  and  a  sign  to  her  sister  not  to  follow 
her,  she  directly  got  up  and  hurried  out  of  the 
room. 

“Poor  soul!”  cried  Mrs  Jennings,  as  soon  as 
she  was  gone,  “how  it  grieves  me  to  see  her !  And 
I  declare  if  she  is  not  gone  away  without  finishing 
her  wine!  And  the  dried  cherries  too!  Lord! 

[38] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


nothing  seems  to  do  her  any  good.  I  am  sure  if 
I  knew  of  anything  she  would  like,  I  would  send 
all  over  the  town  for  it.  Well,  it  is  the  oddest 
thing  to  me,  that  a  man  should  use  such  a  pretty 
girl  so  ill!  But  when  there  is  plenty  of  money  on 
one  side,  and  next  to  none  on  the  other,  Lord 
bless  you!  they  care  no  more  about  such 
things! — ” 

“The  lady  then — Miss  Grey  I  think  you  called 
her — is  very  rich?” 

“Fifty  thousand  pounds,  my  dear.  Did  you 
ever  see  her?  a  smart,  stilish  girl,  they  say,  but  not 
handsome.  I  remember  her  aunt  very  well, 
Biddy  Henshawe;  she  married  a  very  wealthy 
man.  But  the  f amily  are  all  rich  together.  Fifty 
thousand  pounds!  and  by  all  accounts  it  won’t 
come  before  it’s  wanted;  for  they  say  he  is  all  to 
pieces.  No  wonder!  dashing  about  with  his  cur¬ 
ricle  and  hunters.  Well,  it  don’t  signify  talk¬ 
ing,  but  when  a  young  man,  be  he  who  he  will, 
comes  and  makes  love  to  a  pretty  girl,  and  prom¬ 
ises  marriage,  he  has  no  business  to  fly  off  from 
his  word  only  because  he  grows  poor,  and  a  richer 
girl  is  ready  to  take  him.  Why  don’t  he,  in  such 
a  case,  sell  his  horses,  let  his  house,  turn  off  his 
servants,  and  make  a  thorough  reform  at  once? 
I  warrant  you,  Miss  Marianne  would  have  been 
ready  to  wait  till  matters  came  round.  But  that 
won’t  do  now-a-days;  nothing  in  the  way  of 

[39] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


pleasure  can  ever  be  given  up  by  the  young  men 
of  this  age.” 

“Do  you  know  what  kind  of  a  girl  Miss  Grey 
is?  Is  she  said  to  be  amiable?” 

“I  never  heard  any  harm  of  her;  indeed,  I 
hardly  ever  heard  her  mentioned ;  except  that  Mrs 
Taylor  did  say  this  morning  that  one  day  Miss 
Walker  hinted  to  her,  that  she  believed  Mr  and 
Mrs  Ellison  would  not  be  sorry  to  have  Miss 
Grey  married,  for  she  and  Mrs  Ellison  could 
never  agree.” 

“And  who  are  the  Ellisons?” 

“Her  guardians,  my  dear.  But  now  she  is  of 
age  and  may  choose  for  herself ;  and  a  pretty 
choice  she  has  made! — What  now,”  after  pausing 
a  moment — “your  poor  sister  has  gone  to  her  own 
room,  I  suppose,  to  moan  by  herself.  Is  there 
nothing  one  can  get  to  comfort  her?  Poor  dear, 
it  seems  quite  cruel  to  let  her  be  alone.  Well, 
by-and-by  we  shall  have  a  few  friends,  and  that 
will  amuse  her  a  little.  What  shall  we  play  at? 
She  hates  whist,  I  know;  but  is  there  no  round 
game  she  cares  for?” 

“Dear  ma’am,  this  kindness  is  quite  unneces¬ 
sary.  Marianne,  I  dare  say,  will  not  leave  her 
room  again  this  evening.  I  shall  persuade  her,  if 
I  can,  to  go  early  to  bed,  for  I  am  sure  she  wants 
rest.” 

“Aye,  I  believe  that  will  be  best  for  her.  Let 
[40] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

her  name  her  own  supper,  and  go  to  bed.  Lord ! 
no  wonder  she  has  been  looking  so  bad  and  so 
cast- down  this  last  week  or  two,  for  this  matter  I 
suppose  has  been  hanging  over  her  head  as  long 
as  that.  And  so  the  letter  that  came  to-day  fin¬ 
ished  it.  Poor  soul!  I  am  sure  if  I  had  had  a 
notion  of  it,  I  would  not  have  joked  her  about  it 
for  all  my  money.  But  then,  you  know,  how 
should  I  guess  such  a  thing?  I  made  sure  of  its 
being  nothing  but  a  common  love-letter,  and  you 
know  young  people  like  to  be  laughed  at  about 
them.  Lord!  how  concerned  Sir  John  and  my 
daughters  will  be  when  they  hear  it !  If  I  had  had 
my  senses  about  me,  I  might  have  called  in  Con¬ 
duit-street  in  my  way  home,  and  told  them  of  it. 
But  I  shall  see  them  to-morrow.” 

“It  would  be  unnecessary,  I  am  sure,  for  you 
to  caution  Mrs  Palmer  and  Sir  John  against  ever 
naming  Mr  Willoughby,  or  making  the  slightest 
allusion  to  what  has  passed,  before  my  sister. 
Their  own  good-nature  must  point  out  to  them 
the  real  cruelty  of  appearing  to  know  anything 
about  it  when  she  is  present ;  and  the  less  that  may 
ever  be  said  to  myself  on  the  subject,  the  more 
my  feelings  will  be  spared,  as  you,  my  dear 
madam,  will  easily  believe.” 

“O  Lord!  yes,  that  I  do  indeed.  It  must  be 
terrible  for  you  to  hear  it  talked  of ;  and  as  for 
your  sister,  I  am  sure  I  would  not  mention  a  word 

[41] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


about  it  to  her  for  the  world.  You  saw  I  did  not 
all  dinner-time.  No  more  would  Sir  John  nor 
my  daughters,  for  they  are  all  very  thoughtful 
and  considerate — especially  if  I  give  them  a  hint, 
as  I  certainly  will.  For  my  part,  I  think  the  less 
that  is  said  about  such  things,  the  better,  the 
sooner  ’tis  blown  over  and  forgot.  And  what 
good  does  talking  ever  do,  you  know?” 

“In  this  affair  it  can  only  do  harm — more  so 
perhaps  than  in  many  cases  of  a  similar  kind,  for 
it  has  been  attended  by  circumstances  which,  for 
the  sake  of  every  one  concerned  in  it,  make  it 
unfit  to  become  the  public  conversation.  I  must 
do  this  justice  to  Mr  Willoughby — he  has  broken 
no  positive  engagement  with  my  sister.” 

“Law,  my  dear!  Don’t  pretend  to  defend  him. 
No  positive  engagement  indeed!  after  taking  her 
all  over  Allenham  House,  and  fixing  on  the  very 
rooms  they  were  to  live  in  hereafter!” 

Elinor,  for  her  sister’s  sake,  could  not  press  the 
subject  farther,  and  she  hoped  it  was  not  re¬ 
quired  of  her  for  Willoughby’s;  since,  though 
Marianne  might  lose  much,  he  could  gain  very 
little  by  the  enforcement  of  the  real  truth.  After 
a  short  silence  on  both  sides,  Mrs  Jennings,  with 
all  her  natural  hilarity,  burst  f orth  again — 
“Well,  my  dear,  ’tis  a  true  saying  about  an  ill 
wind,  for  it  will  be  all  the  better  for  Colonel 
Brandon.  He  will  have  her  at  last;  aye,  that  he 
[42] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


will.  Mind  me,  now,  if  they  an’t  married  by  Mid¬ 
summer.  Lord !  how  he’ll  chuckle  over  this  news ! 
I  hope  he  will  come  to-night.  It  will  be  all  to  one 
a  better  match  for  your  sister.  Two  thousand 
a-year  without  debt  or  drawback — except  the 
little  love-child,  indeed;  aye,  I  had  forgot  her; 
but  she  may  be  ’prenticed  out  at  small  cost,  and 
then  what  does  it  signify?  Delaford  is  a  nice 
place,  I  can  tell  you;  exactly  what  I  call  a  nice 
old-fashioned  place,  full  of  comforts  and  con¬ 
veniences;  quite  shut  in  with  great  garden  walls 
that  are  covered  with  the  best  fruit-trees  in  the 
country ;  and  such  a  mulberry  tree  in  one  corner ! 

Lord!  how  Charlotte  and  I  did  stuff  the  only 

%/ 

time  we  were  there!  Then,  there  is  a  dovecote, 
some  delightful  stewponds,  and  a  very  pretty 
canal;  and  everything,  in  short,  that  one  could 
wish  for:  and,  moreover,  it  is  close  to  the  church, 
and  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  turnpike- 
road,  so  ’tis  never  dull,  for  if  you  only  go  and  sit 
up  in  an  old  yew  arbour  behind  the  house,  you 
may  see  all  the  carriages  that  pass  along.  Oh! 
’tis  a  nice  place!  A  butcher  hard  by  in  the  vil¬ 
lage,  and  the  parsonage-house  within  a  stone’s 
throw.  To  my  fancy,  a  thousand  times  prettier 
than  Barton  Park,  where  they  are  forced  to  send 
three  miles  for  their  meat,  and  have  not  a  neigh¬ 
bour  nearer  than  your  mother.  Well,  I  shall 
spirit  up  the  Colonel  as  soon  as  I  can.  One 

[43] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


shoulder  of  mutton,  you  know,  drives  another 
down.  If  we  can  but  put  Willoughby  out  of  her 
headr 

“Aye,  if  we  can  but  do  that,  ma’am,”  said 
Elinor,  “we  shall  do  very  well  with  or  without 
Colonel  Brandon.”  And  then  rising,  she  went 
away  to  join  Marianne,  whom  she  found,  as  she 
expected,  in  her  own  room,  leaning,  in  silent 
misery,  over  the  small  remains  of  a  fire  which, 
till  Elinor’s  entrance,  had  been  her  only  light. 

“You  had  better  leave  me,”  was  all  the  notice 
that  her  sister  received  from  her. 

“I  will  leave  you,”  said  Elinor,  “if  you  will  go 
to  bed.”  But  this,  from  the  momentary  perverse¬ 
ness  of  impatient  suffering,  she  at  first  refused 
to  do.  Her  sister’s  earnest,  though  gentle  per¬ 
suasion,  however,  soon  softened  her  to  compli¬ 
ance,  and  Elinor  saw  her  lay  her  aching  head  on 
the  pillow,  and  saw  her,  as  she  hoped,  in  a  way  to 
get  some  quiet  rest  before  she  left  her. 

In  the  drawing-room,  whither  she  then  re¬ 
paired,  she  was  soon  joined  by  Mrs  Jennings, 
with  a  wine-glass,  full  of  something,  in  her  hand. 

“My  dear,”  said  she,  entering,  “I  have  just 
recollected  that  I  have  some  of  the  finest  old  Con¬ 
stants  wine,  in  the  house,  that  ever  was  tasted — 
so  I  have  brought  a  glass  of  it  for  your  sister. 
My  poor  husband!  how  fond  he  was  of  it! 
Whenever  he  had  a  touch  of  his  old  cholicky  gout, 
[44] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


he  said  it  did  him  more  good  than  anything  else 
in  the  world.  Do  take  it  to  your  sister.” 

“Dear  ma’am,”  replied  Elinor,  smiling  at  the 
difference  of  the  complaints  for  which  it  was 
recommended,  “how  good  you  are!  But  I  have 
just  left  Marianne  in  bed,  and,  I  hope,  almost 
asleep ;  and  as  I  think  nothing  will  be  of  so  much 
service  to  her  as  rest,  if  you  will  give  me  leave,  I 
will  drink  the  wine  myself.” 

Mrs  Jennings,  though  regretting  that  she  had 
not  been  five  minutes  earlier,  was  satisfied  with 
the  compromise ;  and  Elinor,  as  she  swallowed  the 
chief  of  it,  reflected  that,  though  its  good  effects 
on  a  cholicky  gout  were  at  present  of  little  impor¬ 
tance  to  her,  its  healing  powers  on  a  disappointed 
heart  might  be  as  reasonably  tried  on  herself  as 
on  her  sister. 

Colonel  Brandon  came  in  while  the  party  were 
at  tea,  and  by  his  manner  of  looking  round  the 
room  for  Marianne,  Elinor  immediately  fancied 
that  he  neither  expected  nor  wished  to  see  her 
there,  and,  in  short,  that  he  was  already  aware  of 
what  occasioned  her  absence.  Mrs  Jennings  was 
not  struck  by  the  same  thought;  for,  soon  after 
his  entrance,  she  walked  across  the  room  to  the 
tea-table  where  Elinor  presided,  and  whispered 
— “The  Colonel  looks  as  grave  as  ever,  you  see. 
He  knows  nothing  of  it;  do  tell  him,  my  dear.” 

He  shortly  afterwards  drew  a  chair  close  to 

I  [45] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


hers,  and,  with  a  look  which  perfectly  assured  her 
of  his  good  information,  inquired  after  her  sister. 

“Marianne  is  not  well,”  said  she.  “She  has 
been  indisposed  all  day;  and  we  have  persuaded 
her  to  go  to  bed.” 

“Perhaps,  then,”  he  hesitatingly  replied,  “what 
I  heard  this  morning  may  be  true — there  may  be 
more  truth  in  it  than  I  could  believe  possible  at 
first.” 

“What  did  you  hear?” 

“That  a  gentleman,  whom  I  had  reason  to 
think — in  short,  that  a  man,  whom  I  knew  to  be 
engaged — but  how  shall  I  tell  you?  If  you  know 
it  already,  as  surely  you  must,  I  may  be  spared.” 

“You  mean,”  answered  Elinor  with  forced 
calmness,  “Mr  Willoughby’s  marriage  with  Miss 
Grey.  Yes,  we  do  know  it  all.  This  seems  to 
have  been  a  day  of  general  elucidation,  for  this 
very  morning  first  unfolded  it  to  us.  Mr  Wil¬ 
loughby  is  unfathomable!  Where  did  you  hear 
it?” 

“In  a  stationer’s  shop  in  Pall  Mall,  where  I 
had  business.  Two  ladies  were  waiting  for  their 
carriage,  and  one  of  them  was  giving  the  other 
an  account  of  the  intended  match,  in  a  voice  so 
little  attempting  concealment,  that  it  was  impos¬ 
sible  for  me  not  to  hear  all.  The  name  of  Wil¬ 
loughby,  John  Willoughby,  frequently  repeated, 
first  caught  my  attention,  and  what  followed  was 
[46] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


a  positive  assertion  that  everything  was  now 
finally  settled  respecting  his  marriage  with  Miss 
Grey — it  was  no  longer  to  be  a  secret — it  would 
take  place  even  within  a  few  weeks,  with  many 
particulars  of  preparation  and  other  matters. 
One  thing,  especially,  I  remember,  because  it 
served  to  identify  the  man  still  more; — as  soon 
as  the  ceremony  was  over,  they  were  to  go  to 
Combe  Magna,  his  seat  in  Somersetshire.  My 
astonishment!  But  it  would  be  impossible  to 
describe  what  I  felt.  The  communicative  lady,  I 
learnt  on  inquiry,  for  I  staid  in  the  shop  till  they 
were  gone,  was  a  Mrs  Ellison,  and  that,  as  I 
have  been  since  informed,  is  the  name  of  Miss 
Grey’s  guardian.” 

“It  is.  But  have  you  likewise  heard  that  Miss 
Grey  has  fifty  thousand  pounds?  In  that,  if  in 
anything,  we  may  find  an  explanation.” 

“It  may  be  so;  but  Willoughby  is  capable — at 
least  I  think” — he  stopped  a  moment;  then  added 
in  a  voice  which  seemed  to  distrust  itself,  “And 
your  sister — how  did  she — ” 

“Her  suff  erings  have  been  very  severe.  I  have 
only  to  hope  that  they  may  be  proportionably 
short.  It  has  been,  it  is  a  most  cruel  affliction. 
Till  yesterday,  I  believe,  she  never  doubted  his 
regard ;  and  even  now,  perhaps — but  I  am  almost 
convinced  that  he  never  was  really  attached  to 
her.  He  has  been  very  deceitful!  and,  in  some 

[47] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


points,  there  seems  a  hardness  of  heart  about 
him.” 

“Ah!”  said  Colonel  Brandon,  “there  is,  indeed! 
But  your  sister  does  not — I  think  you  said  so — 
she  does  not  consider  it  quite  as  you  do?” 

“You  know  her  disposition,  and  may  believe 
how  eagerly  she  would  still  justify  him  if  she 
could.” 

He  made  no  answer;  and  soon  afterwards,  by 
the  removal  of  the  tea  things,  and  the  arrange¬ 
ment  of  the  card  parties,  the  subject  was  neces¬ 
sarily  dropped.  Mrs  Jennings  who  had  watched 
them  with  pleasure  while  they  were  talking,  and 
who  expected  to  see  the  effect  of  Miss  Dash- 
wood’s  communication,  in  such  an  instantaneous 
gaiety  on  Colonel  Brandon’s  side  as  might  have 
become  a  man  in  the  bloom  of  youth,  of  hope  and 
happiness,  saw  him,  with  amazement,  remain  the 
whole  evening  more  serious  and  thoughtful  than 
usual. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

FROM  a  night  of  more  sleep  than  she  had 
expected,  Marianne  awoke  the  next  morn¬ 
ing  to  the  same  consciousness  of  misery 
in  which  she  had  closed  her  eyes. 

Elinor  encouraged  her  as  much  as  possible  to 
£  [48] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


talk  of  what  she  felt;  and  before  breakfast  was 
ready,  they  had  gone  through  the  subject  again 
and  again;  with  the  same  steady  conviction  and 
affectionate  counsel  on  Elinor’s  side,  the  same 
impetuous  feelings  and  varying  opinions  on 
Marianne’s,  as  before.  Sometimes  she  could 
believe  Willoughby  to  be  as  unfortunate  and  as 
innocent  as  herself,  and  at  others,  lost  every  con¬ 
solation  in  the  impossibility  of  acquitting  him. 
At  one  moment  she  was  absolutely  indiff  erent  to 
the  observation  of  all  the  world,  at  another  she 
would  seclude  herself  from  it  for  ever,  and  at  a 
third  could  resist  it  with  energy.  In  one  thing, 
however,  she  was  uniform,  when  it  came  to  the 
point,  in  avoiding,  where  it  was  possible,  the 
presence  of  Mrs  Jennings,  and  in  a  determined 
silence  when  obliged  to  endure  it.  Her  heart  was 
hardened  against  the  belief  of  Mrs  Jennings’s 
entering  into  her  sorrows  with  any  compassion. 

“No,  no,  no,  it  cannot  be,”  she  cried;  “she 
cannot  feel.  Her  kindness  is  not  sympathy;  her 
good-nature  is  not  tenderness.  All  that  she  wants 
is  gossip,  and  she  only  likes  me  now  because  I 
supply  it.” 

Elinor  had  not  needed  this  to  be  assured  of  the 
injustice  to  which  her  sister  was  often  led  in  her 
opinion  of  others,  by  the  irritable  refinement  of 
her  own  mind,  and  the  too  great  importance 
placed  by  her  on  the  delicacies  of  a  strong  sensi- 

[49] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


bility,  and  the  graces  of  a  polished  manner.  Like 
half  the  rest  of  the  world,  if  more  than  half  there 
be  that  are  clever  and  good,  Marianne,  with  excel¬ 
lent  abilities  and  an  excellent  disposition,  was 
neither  reasonable  nor  candid.  She  expected 
from  other  people  the  same  opinions  and  feelings 
as  her  own,  and  she  judged  of  their  motives  by 
the  immediate  effect  of  their  actions  on  herself. 
Thus  a  circumstance  occurred,  while  the  sisters 
were  together  in  their  own  room  after  breakfast, 
which  sunk  the  heart  of  Mrs  Jennings  still  lower 
in  her  estimation ;  because,  through  her  own  weak¬ 
ness,  it  chanced  to  prove  a  source  of  fresh  pain 
to  herself,  though  Mrs  Jennings  was  governed  in 
it  by  an  impulse  of  the  utmost  good-will. 

With  a  letter  in  her  outstretched  hand,  and 
countenance  gaily  smiling,  from  the  persuasion 
of  bringing  comfort,  she  entered  their  room,  say¬ 
ing— 

“Now,  my  dear,  I  bring  you  something  that  I 
am  sure  will  do  you  good.” 

Marianne  heard  enough.  In  one  moment  her 
imagination  placed  before  her  a  letter  from  Wil¬ 
loughby,  full  of  tenderness  and  contrition,  ex¬ 
planatory  of  all  that  had  passed,  satisfactory, 
convincing;  and  instantly  followed  by  Wil¬ 
loughby  himself,  rushing  eagerly  into  the  room 
to  inforce,  at  her  feet,  by  the  eloquence  of  his 
eyes,  the  assurances  of  his  letter.  The  work  of 
[50] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


one  moment  was  destroyed  by  the  next.  The 
handwriting  of  her  mother,  never  till  then  unwel¬ 
come,  was  before  her;  and,  in  the  acuteness  of  the 
disappointment  which  followed  such  an  extasy  of 
more  than  hope,  she  felt  as  if,  till  that  instant,  she 
had  never  suffered. 

The  cruelty  of  Mrs  Jennings  no  language, 
within  her  reach  in  her  moments  of  happiest  elo¬ 
quence,  could  have  expressed ;  and  now  she  could 
reproach  her  only  by  the  tears  which  streamed 
from  her  eyes  with  passionate  violence — a 
reproach,  however,  so  entirely  lost  on  its  object, 
that  after  many  expressions  of  pity,  she  with¬ 
drew,  still  referring  her  to  the  letter  for  comfort. 
But  the  letter,  when  she  was  calm  enough  to  read 
it,  brought  little  comfort.  Willoughby  filled 
every  page.  Her  mother,  still  confident  of  her 
engagement,  and  relying  as  warmly  as  ever  on 
his  constancy,  had  only  been  roused  by  Elinor’s 
application,  to  intreat  from  Marianne  greater 
openness  towards  them  both,  and  this,  with  such 
tenderness  towards  her,  such  affection  for  Wil¬ 
loughby,  and  such  a  conviction  of  their  future 
happiness  in  each  other,  that  she  wept  with  agony 
through  the  whole  of  it. 

All  her  impatience  to  be  at  home  again  now 
returned ;  her  mother  was  dearer  to  her  than  ever 
— dearer  through  the  very  excess  of  her  mistaken 
confidence  in  Willoughby,  and  she  was  wildly 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


urgent  to  be  gone.  Elinor,  unable  herself  to  de¬ 
termine  whether  it  were  better  for  Marianne  to 
be  in  London  or  at  Barton,  offered  no  counsel 
of  her  own  except  of  patience  till  their  mother’s 
wishes  could  be  known ;  and  at  length  she  obtained 
her  sister’s  consent  to  wait  for  that  knowledge. 

Mrs  Jennings  left  them  earlier  than  usual;  for 
she  could  not  be  easy  till  the  Middletons  and 
Palmers  were  able  to  grieve  as  much  as  herself ; 
and  positively  refusing  Elinor’s  offered  attend¬ 
ance,  went  out  alone  for  the  rest  of  the  morning. 
Elinor,  with  a  very  heavy  heart,  aware  of  the 
pain  she  was  going  to  communicate,  and  perceiv¬ 
ing  by  Marianne’s  letter  how  ill  she  had  succeeded 
in  laying  any  foundation  for  it,  then  sat  down  to 
write  her  mother  an  account  of  what  had  passed, 
and  intreat  her  directions  for  the  future;  while 
Marianne,  who  came  into  the  drawing-room  on 
Mrs  Jennings’s  going  away,  remained  fixed  at 
the  table  where  Elinor  wrote,  watching  the  ad¬ 
vancement  of  her  pen,  grieving  over  her  for  the 
hardship  of  such  a  task,  and  grieving  still  more 
fondly  over  its  effect  on  her  mother. 

In  this  manner  they  had  continued  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  when  Marianne,  whose  nerves 
could  not  then  bear  any  sudden  noise,  was  startled 
by  a  rap  at  the  door. 

“Who  can  this  be?”  cried  Elinor.  “So  early 
too !  I  thought  we  had  been  safe.” 

[52] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Marianne  moved  to  the  window. 

“It  is  Colonel  Brandon!”  said  she,  with  vexa¬ 
tion.  “We  are  never  safe  from  him” 

“He  will  not  come  in,  as  Mrs  Jennings  is  from 
home.” 

“I  will  not  trust  to  that  ”  retreating  to  her  own 
room.  “A  man  who  has  nothing  to  do  with  his 
own  time  has  no  conscience  in  his  intrusion  on 
that  of  others.” 

The  event  proved  her  conjecture  right,  though 
it  was  founded  on  injustice  and  error,  for  Colonel 
Brandon  did  come  in;  and  Elinor,  who  was  con¬ 
vinced  that  solicitude  for  Marianne  brought  him 
thither,  and  who  saw  that  solicitude  in  his  dis¬ 
turbed  and  melancholy  look,  and  in  his  anxious 
though  brief  inquiry  after  her,  could  not  forgive 
her  sister  for  esteeming  him  so  lightly. 

“I  met  Mrs  Jennings  in  Bond  Street,”  said  he, 
after  the  first  salutation,  “and  she  encouraged  me 
to  come  on;  and  I  was  the  more  easily  encour¬ 
aged,  because  I  thought  it  probable  that  I  might 
find  you  alone,  which  I  was  very  desirous  of 
doing.  My  object — my  wish — my  sole  wish  in 
desiring  it — I  hope,  I  believe  it  is — is  to  be  a 
means  of  giving  comfort — no,  I  must  not  say 
comfort — not  present  comfort — but  conviction, 
lasting  conviction  to  your  sister’s  mind.  My 
regard  for  her,  for  yourself,  for  your  mother — 
will  you  allow  me  to  prove  it  by  relating  some  cir- 

[53] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


cumstances,  which  nothing  but  a  very  sincere 
regard — nothing  but  an  earnest  desire  of  being 
useful — .  I  think  I  am  justified — though  where 
so  many  hours  have  been  spent  in  convincing 
myself  that  I  am  right,  is  there  not  some  reason 
to  fear  I  may  be  wrong?”  He  stopped. 

“I  understand  you,”  said  Elinor.  “You  have 
something  to  tell  me  of  Mr  Willoughby,  that 
will  open  his  character  farther.  Your  telling  it 
will  be  the  greatest  act  of  friendship  that  can  be 
shewn  Marianne.  My  gratitude  will  be  insured 
immediately  by  any  information  tending  to  that 
end,  and  hers  must  be  gained  by  it  in  time.  Pray, 
pray,  let  me  hear  it.” 

“You  shall;  and,  to  be  brief,  when  I  quitted 
Barton  last  October —  but  this  will  give  you  no 
idea.  I  must  go  farther  back.  You  will  find  me 
a  very  awkward  narrator,  Miss  Dash  wood;  I 
hardly  know  where  to  begin.  A  short  account  of 
myself,  I  believe,  will  be  necessary,  and  it  shall 
be  a  short  one.  On  such  a  subject,”  sighing  heav¬ 
ily,  “I  can  have  little  temptation  to  be  diffuse.” 

He  stopt  a  moment  for  recollection,  and  then, 
with  another  sigh,  went  on. 

“You  have  probably  entirely  forgotten  a  con¬ 
versation —  (it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  it  could 
make  any  impression  on  you) — a  conversation 
between  us  one  evening  at  Barton  Park — it  was 
the  evening  of  a  dance — in  which  I  alluded  to  a 
[54] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


lady  I  had  once  known,  as  resembling  in  some 
measure,  your  sister  Marianne.” 

“Indeed,”  answered  Elinor,  “I  have  not  for¬ 
gotten  it.”  He  looked  pleased  by  this  remem¬ 
brance,  and  added — 

“If  I  am  not  deceived  by  the  uncertainty,  the 
partiality  of  tender  recollection,  there  is  a  very 
strong  resemblance  between  them,  as  well  in  mind 
as  person — the  same  warmth  of  heart,  the  same 
eagerness  of  fancy  and  spirits.  This  lady  was 
one  of  my  nearest  relations,  an  orphan  from  her 
infancy,  and  under  the  guardianship  of  my 
father.  Our  ages  were  nearly  the  same,  and  from 
our  earliest  years  we  were  playfellows  and 
friends.  I  cannot  remember  the  time  when  I  did 
not  love  Eliza;  and  my  affection  for  her,  as  we 
grew  up,  was  such,  as  perhaps,  judging  from  my 
present  forlorn  and  cheerless  gravity,  you  might 
think  me  incapable  of  having  ever  felt.  Hers, 
for  me,  was,  I  believe,  fervent  as  the  attachment 
of  your  sister  to  Mr  Willoughby,  and  it  was, 
though  from  a  different  cause,  no  less  unfortu¬ 
nate.  At  seventeen  she  was  lost  to  me  for  ever. 
She  was  married — married  against  her  inclina¬ 
tion  to  my  brother.  Her  fortune  was  large,  and 
our  family  estate  much  encumbered.  And  this, 
I  fear,  is  all  that  can  be  said  for  the  conduct  of 
one  who  was  at  once  her  uncle  and  guardian.  My 
brother  did  not  deserve  her ;  he  did  not  even  love 

[551 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


her.  I  had  hoped  that  her  regard  for  me  would 
support  her  under  any  difficulty,  and  for  some 
time  it  did; — but  at  last  the  misery  of  her  situa¬ 
tion,  for  she  experienced  great  unkindness,  over¬ 
came  all  her  resolution,  and  though  she  had  prom¬ 
ised  me  that  nothing — but  how  blindly  I  relate! 
I  have  never  told  you  how  this  was  brought  on. 
We  were  within  a  few  hours  of  eloping  together 
for  Scotland.  The  treachery,  or  the  folly,  of  my 
cousin’s  maid  betrayed  us.  I  was  banished  to 
the  house  of  a  relation  far  distant,  and  she  was 
allowed  no  liberty,  no  society,  no  amusement,  till 
my  father’s  point  was  gained.  I  had  depended 
on  her  fortitude  too  far,  and  the  blow  was  a 
severe  one — but  had  her  marriage  been  happy, 
so  young  as  I  then  was,  a  few  months  must  have 
reconciled  me  to  it,  or  at  least  I  should  not  have 
now  to  lament  it.  This,  however,  was  not  the 
case.  My  brother  had  no  regard  for  her;  his 
pleasures  were  not  what  they  ought  to  have  been, 
and  from  the  first  he  treated  her  unkindly.  The 
consequence  of  this,  upon  a  mind  so  young,  so 
lively,  so  inexperienced  as  Mrs  Brandon’s,  was 
but  too  natural.  She  resigned  herself  at  first  to 
all  the  misery  of  her  situation;  and  happy  had  it 
been  if  she  had  not  lived  to  overcome  those 
regrets  which  the  remembrance  of  me  occasioned. 
But  can  we  wonder  that  with  such  a  husband  to 
provoke  inconstancy,  and  without  a  friend  to 
[56] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


advise  or  restrain  her  (for  my  father  lived  only 
a  few  months  after  their  marriage,  and  I  was 
with  my  regiment  in  the  East  Indies) ,  she  should 
f all  ?  Had  I  remained  in  England,  perhaps — but 
I  meant  to  promote  the  happiness  of  both  by 
removing  from  her  for  years,  and  for  that  pur¬ 
pose  had  procured  my  exchange.  The  shock 
which  her  marriage  had  given  me,”  he  continued 
in  a  voice  of  great  agitation,  “was  of  trifling 
weight — was  nothing — to  what  I  felt  when  I 
heard,  about  two  years  afterwards,  of  her  divorce. 
It  was  that  which  threw  this  gloom, — even  now 
the  recollection  of  what  I  suffered — ” 

He  could  say  no  more,  and  rising  hastily, 
walked  for  a  few  minutes  about  the  room.  Eli¬ 
nor,  aff  ected  by  his  relation,  and  still  more  by  his 
distress,  could  not  speak.  He  saw  her  concern, 
and  coming  to  her,  took  her  hand,  pressed  it,  and 
kissed  it  with  grateful  respect.  A  few  minutes 
more  of  silent  exertion  enabled  him  to  proceed 
with  composure. 

“It  was  nearly  three  years  after  this  unhappy 
period  before  I  returned  to  England.  My  first 
care,  when  I  did  arrive,  was  of  course  to  seek  for 
her;  but  the  search  was  as  fruitless  as  it  was  mel¬ 
ancholy.  I  could  not  trace  her  beyond  her  first 
seducer,  and  there  was  every  reason  to  fear  that 
she  had  removed  from  him  only  to  sink  deeper  in 
a  life  of  sin.  Her  legal  allowance  was  not  ade- 

.  '  [57] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


quate  to  her  fortune,  nor  sufficient  for  her  com¬ 
fortable  maintenance,  and  I  learnt  from  my 
brother  that  the  power  of  receiving  it  had  been 
made  over  some  months  before  to  another  person. 
He  imagined,  and  calmly  could  he  imagine  it, 
that  her  extravagance  and  consequent  distress 
had  obliged  her  to  dispose  of  it  for  some  imme¬ 
diate  relief.  At  last,  however,  and  after  I  had 
been  six  months  in  England,  I  did  find  her. 
Regard  for  a  former  servant  of  my  own,  who  had 
since  fallen  into  misfortune,  carried  me  to  visit 
him  in  a  spunging-house,  where  he  was  confined 
for  debt;  and  there,  in  the  same  house,  under  a 
similar  confinement,  was  my  unfortunate  sister. 
So  altered — so  faded — worn  down  by  acute  suf¬ 
fering  of  every  kind!  hardly  could  I  believe  the 
melancholy  and  sickly  figure  before  me,  to  be  the 
remains  of  the  lovely,  blooming,  healthful  girl, 
on  whom  I  had  once  doated.  What  I  endured 
in  so  beholding  her — but  I  have  no  right  to  wound 
your  feelings  by  attempting  to  describe  it — I 
have  pained  you  too  much  already.  That  she 
was,  to  all  appearance,  in  the  last  stage  of  a  con¬ 
sumption,  was — yes,  in  such  a  situation  it  was  my 
greatest  comfort.  Life  could  do  nothing  for  her, 
beyond  giving  time  for  a  better  preparation  for 
death;  and  that  was  given.  I  saw  her  placed  in 
comfortable  lodgings,  and  under  proper  attend¬ 
ants;  I  visited  her  every  day  during  the  rest  of 
[58] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

her  short  life:  I  was  with  her  in  her  last 
moments.” 

Again  he  stopped  to  recover  himself ;  and 
Elinor  spoke  her  feelings  in  an  exclamation  of 
tender  concern  at  the  fate  of  his  unfortunate 
friend. 

“Your  sister,  I  hope,  cannot  be  offended,”  said 
he,  “by  the  resemblance  I  have  fancied  between 
her  and  my  poor  disgraced  relation.  Their  fates, 
their  fortunes  cannot  be  the  same;  and  had  the 
natural  sweet  disposition  of  the  one  been  guarded 
by  a  firmer  mind,  or  a  happier  marriage,  she 
might  have  been  all  that  you  will  live  to  see  the 
other  be.  But  to  what  does  all  this  lead?  I  seem 
to  have  been  distressing  you  for  nothing.  Ah! 
Miss  Dash  wood — a  subject  such  as  this — un¬ 
touched  for  fourteen  years — it  is  dangerous  to 
handle  it  at  all!  I  will  be  more  collected — more 
concise.  She  left  to  my  care  her  only  little  child, 
a  little  girl,  the  offspring  of  her  first  guilty  con¬ 
nection,  who  was  then  about  three  years  old. 
She  loved  the  child,  and  had  always  kept  it  with 
her.  It  was  a  valued,  a  precious  trust  to  me ;  and 
gladly  would  I  have  discharged  it  in  the  strictest 
sense,  by  watching  over  her  education  myself, 
had  the  nature  of  our  situations  allowed  it;  but 
I  had  no  family,  no  home;  and  my  little  Eliza 
was  therefore  placed  at  school.  I  saw  her  there 
whenever  I  could,  and  after  the  death  of  my 

[59] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


brother  (which  happened  about  five  years  ago, 
and  which  left  me  the  possession  of  the  family 
property),  she  frequently  visited  me  at  Dela- 
ford.  I  called  her  a  distant  relation;  but  I  am 
well  aware  that  I  have  in  general  been  suspected 
of  a  much  nearer  connection  with  her.  It  is  now 
three  years  ago  (she  had  just  reached  her  four¬ 
teenth  year),  that  I  removed  her  from  school,  to 
place  her  under  the  care  of  a  very  respectable 
woman,  residing  in  Dorsetshire,  who  had  the 
charge  of  four  or  five  other  girls  of  about  the 
same  time  of  life;  and  for  two  years  I  had  every 
reason  to  be  pleased  with  her  situation.  But  last 
February,  almost  a  twelvemonth  back,  she  sud¬ 
denly  disappeared.  I  had  allowed  her  (impru¬ 
dently,  as  it  has  since  turned  out),  at  her  earnest 
desire,  to  go  to  Bath  with  one  of  her  young 
friends,  who  was  attending  her  father  there  for 
his  health.  I  knew  him  to  be  a  very  good  sort  of 
man,  and  I  thought  well  of  his  daughter — better 
than  she  deserved,  for,  with  a  most  obstinate  and 
ill-judged  secrecy,  she  would  tell  nothing,  would 
give  no  clue,  though  she  certainly  knew  all.  He, 
her  father,  a  well-meaning,  but  not  a  quick- 
sighted  man,  could  really,  I  believe,  give  no  infor¬ 
mation;  for  he  had  been  generally  confined  to  the 
house,  while  the  girls  were  ranging  over  the  town 
and  making  what  acquaintances  they  chose;  and 
he  tried  to  convince  me,  as  thoroughly  as  he  was 
[60]  .  . 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


convinced  himself,  of  his  daughter’s  being  en¬ 
tirely  unconcerned  in  the  business.  In  short,  I 
could  learn  nothing  but  that  she  was  gone ;  all  the 
rest,  for  eight  long  months,  was  left  to  con¬ 
jecture.  What  I  thought,  what  I  feared,  may  be 
imagined;  and  what  I  suffered  too/’ 

“Good  heavens!”  cried  Elinor,  “could  it  be! 
could  Willoughby — ” 

“The  first  news  that  reached  me  of  her,”  he 
continued,  “came  in  a  letter  from  herself  last 
October.  It  was  forwarded  to  me  from  Dela- 
ford,  and  I  received  it  on  the  very  morning  of 
our  intended  party  to  Whitwell ;  and  this  was  the 
reason  of  my  leaving  Barton  so  suddenly,  which 
I  am  sure  must  at  the  time  have  appeared  strange 
to  everybody,  and  which  I  believe  gave  off  ense  to 
some.  Little  did  Mr  Willoughby  imagine,  I 
suppose,  when  his  looks  censured  me  for  incivility 
in  breaking  up  the  party,  that  I  was  called  away 
to  the  relief  of  one  whom  he  had  made  poor  and 
miserable;  but  had  he  known  it,  what  would  it 
have  availed?  Would  he  have  been  less  gay  or 
less  happy  in  the  smiles  of  your  sister?  No,  he 
had  already  done  that  which  no  man  who  can 
feel  for  another  would  do.  He  had  left  the  girl 
whose  youth  and  innocence  he  had  seduced,  in  a 
situation  of  the  utmost  distress,  with  no  credit¬ 
able  home,  no  help,  no  friends,  ignorant  of  his 
address!  He  had  left  her,  promising  to  return; 
he  neither  returned,  nor  wrote,  nor  relieved  her.” 

[61] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“This  is  beyond  everything!”  exclaimed  Elinor. 

“His  character  is  now  before  you — expensive, 
dissipated,  and  worse  than  both.  Knowing  all 
this,  as  I  have  now  known  it  many  weeks,  guess 
what  I  must  have  felt  on  seeing  your  sister  as 
fond  of  him  as  ever,  and  on  being  assured  that 
she  was  to  marry  him;  guess  what  I  must  have 
felt  for  all  your  sakes.  When  I  came  to  you  last 
week  and  found  you  alone,  I  came  determined 
to  know  the  truth,  though  irresolute  what  to  do 
when  it  was  known.  My  behaviour  must  have 
seemed  strange  to  you  then;  but  now  you  will 
comprehend  it.  To  suffer  you  all  to  be  so  de¬ 
ceived;  to  see  your  sister — but  what  could  I  do? 
I  had  no  hope  of  interfering  with  success;  and 
sometimes  I  thought  your  sister’s  influence  might 
yet  reclaim  him.  But  now,  after  such  dishonour¬ 
able  usage,  who  can  tell  what  were  his  designs  on 
her?  Whatever  they  may  have  been,  however, 
she  may  now,  and  hereafter  doubtless  will ,  turn 
with  gratitude  towards  her  own  condition,  when 
she  compares  it  with  that  of  my  poor  Eliza,  when 
she  considers  the  wretched  and  hopeless  situation 
of  this  poor  girl,  and  pictures  her  to  herself,  with 
an  affection  for  him  as  strong,  still  as  strong  as 
her  own,  and  with  a  mind  tormented  by  self- 
reproach,  which  must  attend  her  through  life. 
Surely  this  comparison  must  have  its  use  with  her. 
She  will  feel  her  own  sufferings  to  be  nothing. 
They  proceed  from  no  misconduct,  and  can  bring 
[62] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


no  disgrace.  On  the  contrary,  every  friend  must 
be  made  still  more  her  friend  by  them.  Concern 
for  her  unhappiness,  and  respect  for  her  fortitude 
under  it,  must  strengthen  every  attachment.  Use 
your  own  discretion,  however,  in  communicating 
to  her  what  I  have  told  you.  You  must  know  best 
what  will  be  its  eff  ect ;  but  had  I  not  seriously  and 
from  my  heart  believed  it  might  be  of  service, 
might  lessen  her  regrets,  I  would  not  have  suf¬ 
fered  myself  to  trouble  you  with  this  account  of 
my  family  afflictions,  with  a  recital  which  may 
seem  to  have  been  intended  to  raise  myself  at  the 
expense  of  others.” 

Elinor’s  thanks  followed  this  speech  with  grate¬ 
ful  earnestness;  attended  too  with  the  assurance 
of  her  expecting  material  advantage  to  Marianne, 
from  the  communication  of  what  had  passed. 

“I  have  been  more  pained,”  said  she,  “by  her 
endeavours  to  acquit  him  than  by  all  the  rest;  for 
it  irritates  her  mind  more  than  the  most  perfect 
conviction  of  his  unworthiness  can  do.  Now, 
though  at  first  she  will  suffer  much,  I  am  sure 
she  will  soon  become  easier.  Have  you,”  she  con¬ 
tinued,  after  a  short  silence,  “ever  seen  Mr  Wil¬ 
loughby  since  you  left  him  at  Barton?” 

“Yes,”  he  replied  gravely,  “once  I  have.  One 
meeting  was  unavoidable.” 

Elinor,  startled  by  his  manner,  looked  at  him 
anxiously,  saying — 


[63] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“What!  have  you  met  him  to — ” 

“I  could  meet  him  in  no  other  way.  Eliza  had 
confessed  to  me,  though  most  reluctantly,  the 
name  of  her  lover ;  and  when  he  returned  to  town, 
which  was  within  a  fortnight  after  myself,  we 
met  by  appointment,  he  to  defend,  I  to  punish 
his  conduct.  We  returned  un wounded,  and  the 
meeting,  therefore,  never  got  abroad.” 

Elinor  sighed  over  the  fancied  necessity  of  this ; 
but  to  a  man  and  a  soldier,  she  presumed  not  to 
censure  it. 

“Such,”  said  Colonel  Brandon,  after  a  pause, 
“has  been  the  unhappy  resemblance  between  the 
fate  of  mother  and  daughter!  and  so  imperfectly 
have  I  discharged  my  trust!” 

“Is  she  still  in  town?” 

“No;  as  soon  as  she  recovered  from  her  lying- 
in,  for  I  found  her  near  her  delivery,  I  removed 
her  and  her  child  into  the  country,  and  there  she 
remains.” 

Recollecting,  soon  afterwards,  that  he  was 
probably  dividing  Elinor  from  her  sister,  he  put 
an  end  to  his  visit,  receiving  from  her  again  the 
same  grateful  acknowledgments,  and  leaving  her 
full  of  compassion  and  esteem  for  him. 


[64] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

WHEN  the  particulars  of  this  conversa¬ 
tion  were  repeated  by  Miss  Dash  wood 
to  her  sister,  as  they  very  soon  were, 
their  effect  on  her  was  not  entirely  such  as  the 
former  had  hoped  to  see.  Not  that  Marianne 
appeared  to  distrust  the  truth  of  any  part  of  it, 
for  she  listened  to  it  all  with  the  most  steady  and 
submissive  attention,  made  neither  objection  nor 
remark,  attempted  no  vindication  of  Willoughby, 
and  seemed  to  shew  by  her  tears  that  she  felt  it 
to  be  impossible.  But  though  this  behaviour 
assured  Elinor  that  the  conviction  of  his  guilt 
was  carried  home  to  her  mind;  though  she  saw 
with  satisfaction  the  effect  of  it,  in  her  no  longer 
avoiding  Colonel  Brandon  when  he  called,  in  her 
speaking  to  him,  even  voluntarily  speaking,  with 
a  kind  of  compassionate  respect,  and  though  she 
saw  her  spirits  less  violently  irritated  than  before; 
she  did  not  see  her  less  wretched.  Her  mind  did 
become  settled,  but  it  was  settled  in  a  gloomy 
dejection.  She  felt  the  loss  of  Willoughby’s 
character  yet  more  heavily  than  she  had  felt  the 
loss  of  his  heart;  his  seduction  and  desertion  of 
Miss  Williams,  the  misery  of  that  poor  girl,  and 
the  doubt  of  what  his  designs  might  once  have 
been  on  herself,  preyed  altogether  so  much  on  her 

[05] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


spirits,  that  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  speak 
of  what  she  felt,  even  to  Elinor;  and  brooding 
over  her  sorrows  in  silence,  gave  more  pain  to  her 
sister  than  could  have  been  communicated  by  the 
most  open  and  most  frequent  confession  of  them. 

To  give  the  feelings  or  the  language  of  Mrs 
Dashwood  on  receiving  and  answering  Elinor’s 
letter,  would  be  only  to  give  a  repetition  of  what 
her  daughters  had  already  felt  and  said;  of  a 
disappointment  hardly  less  painful  than  Mari¬ 
anne’s,  and  an  indignation  even  greater  than 
Elinor’s.  Long  letters  from  her,  quickly  suc¬ 
ceeding  each  other,  arrived  to  tell  all  that  she 
suffered  and  thought;  to  express  her  anxious 
solicitude  for  Marianne,  and  entreat  she  would 
bear  up  with  fortitude  under  this  misfortune. 
Bad  indeed  must  the  nature  of  Marianne’s  afflic¬ 
tion  be,  when  her  mother  could  talk  of  fortitude! 
mortifying  and  humiliating  must  be  the  origin  of 
those  regrets,  which  she  could  wish  her  not  to 
indulge ! 

Against  the  interest  of  her  own  individual  com¬ 
fort,  Mrs  Dashwood  had  determined  that  it 
would  be  better  for  Marianne  to  be  anywhere  at 
that  time,  than  at  Barton,  where  everything 
within  her  view  would  be  bringing  back  the  past 
in  the  strongest  and  most  afflicting  manner,  by 
constantly  placing  Willoughby  before  her,  such 
as  she  had  always  seen  him  there.  She  recom- 
[66] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


mended  it  to  her  daughters,  therefore,  by  all 
means  not  to  shorten  their  visit  to  Mrs  Jennings; 
the  length  of  which,  though  never  exactly  fixed, 
had  been  expected  by  all  to  comprise  at  least  five 
or  six  weeks.  A  variety  of  occupations,  of 
objects,  and  of  company,  which  could  not  be  pro¬ 
cured  at  Barton,  would  be  inevitable  there,  and 
might  yet,  she  hoped,  cheat  Marianne,  at  times, 
into  some  interest  beyond  herself,  and  even  into 
some  amusement,  much  as  the  idea  of  both  might 
now  be  spurned  by  her. 

From  all  danger  of  seeing  Willoughby  again, 
her  mother  considered  her  to  be  at  least  equally 
saf e  in  town  as  in  the  country,  since  his  acquaint¬ 
ance  must  now  be  dropped  by  all  who  called 
themselves  her  friends.  Design  could  never 
bring  them  in  each  other’s  way ;  negligence  could 
never  leave  them  exposed  to  a  surprise;  and 
chance  had  less  in  its  favour  in  the  crowd  of  Lon¬ 
don  than  even  in  the  retirement  of  Barton, 
where  it  might  force  him  before  her  while  paying 
that  visit  at  Allenham  on  his  marriage,  which 
Mrs  Dash  wood,  from  foreseeing  at  first  as  a 
probable  event,  had  brought  herself  to  expect  as 
a  certain  one. 

She  had  yet  another  reason  for  wishing  her 
children  to  remain  where  they  were;  a  letter  from 
her  son-in-law  had  told  her  that  he  and  his  wife 
were  to  be  in  town  before  the  middle  of  Febru- 

[67] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


ary,  and  she  judged  it  right  that  they  should 
sometimes  see  their  brother. 

Marianne  had  promised  to  be  guided  by  her 
mother’s  opinion,  and  she  submitted  to  it  there¬ 
fore  without  opposition,  though  it  proved  per¬ 
fectly  different  from  what  she  wished  and  ex¬ 
pected,  though  she  felt  it  to  be  entirely  wrong, 
formed  on  mistaken  grounds,  and  that  by  requir¬ 
ing  her  longer  continuance  in  London  it  deprived 
her  of  the  only  possible  alleviation  of  her  wretch¬ 
edness,  the  personal  sympathy  of  her  mother, 
and  doomed  her  to  such  society  and  such  scenes 
as  must  prevent  her  ever  knowing  a  moment’s 
rest. 

But  it  was  a  matter  of  great  consolation  to  her, 
that  what  brought  evil  to  herself  would  bring 
good  to  her  sister ;  and  Elinor,  on  the  other  hand, 
suspecting  that  it  would  not  be  in  her  power 
to  avoid  Edward  entirely,  comforted  herself  by 
thinking,  that  though  their  longer  stay  would 
therefore  militate  against  her  own  happiness,  it 
would  be  better  for  Marianne  than  an  immediate 
return  into  Devonshire. 

Her  carefulness  in  guarding  her  sister  from 
ever  hearing  Willoughby’s  name  mentioned,  was 
not  thrown  away.  Marianne,  though  without 
knowing  it  herself,  reaped  all  its  advantage;  for 
neither  Mrs  Jennings,  nor  Sir  John,  nor  even 
Mrs  Palmer  herself,  ever  spoke  of  him  before 
[68] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


her.  Elinor  wished  that  the  same  forbearance 
could  have  extended  towards  herself,  but  that 
was  impossible,  and  she  was  obliged  to  listen  day 
after  day  to  the  indignation  of  them  all. 

Sir  John  could  not  have  thought  it  possible. 
“A  man  of  whom  he  had  always  had  such  reason 
to  think  well!  Such  a  good-natured  fellow!  He 
did  not  believe  there  was  a  bolder  rider  in  Eng¬ 
land!  It  was  an  unaccountable  business.  He 
wished  him  at  the  devil  with  all  his  heart.  He 
would  not  speak  another  word  to  him,  meet  him 
where  he  might,  for  all  the  world!  No,  not  if  it 
were  to  be  by  the  side  of  Barton  covert,  and  they 
were  kept  waiting  for  two  hours  together.  Such 
a  scoundrel  of  a  fellow!  such  a  deceitful  dog!  It 
was  only  the  last  time  they  met  that  he  had 
off ered  him  one  of  Folly’s  puppies !  and  this  was 
the  end  of  it!” 

Mrs  Palmer,  in  her  way,  was  equally  angry. 
“She  was  determined  to  drop  his  acquaintance 
immediately,  and  she  was  very  thankful  that  she 
had  never  been  acquainted  with  him  at  all.  She 
wished  with  all  her  heart  Combe  Magna  was  not 
so  near  Cleveland;  but  it  did  not  signify,  for  it 
was  a  great  deal  too  far  off  to  visit;  she  hated 
him  so  much  that  she  was  resolved  never  to  men¬ 
tion  his  name  again,  and  she  should  tell  every¬ 
body  she  saw,  how  good-for-nothing  he  was.” 

The  rest  of  Mrs  Palmer’s  sympathy  was  shewn 

[69] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

in  procuring  all  the  particulars  in  her  power  of 
the  approaching  marriage,  and  communicating 
them  to  Elinor.  She  could  soon  tell  at  what 
coachmaker’s  the  new  carriage  was  building,  by 
what  painter  Mr  Willoughby’s  portrait  was 
drawn,  and  at  what  warehouse  Miss  Grey’s 
clothes  might  be  seen. 

The  calm  and  polite  unconcern  of  Lady  Mid¬ 
dleton  on  the  occasion  was  a  happy  relief  to  Eli¬ 
nor’s  spirits,  oppressed  as  they  often  were  by 
the  clamorous  kindness  of  the  others.  It  was  a 
great  comfort  to  her  to  be  sure  of  exciting  no 
interest  in  one  person  at  least  among  their  circle 
of  friends;  a  great  comfort  to  know  that  there 
was  one  who  would  meet  her  without  feeling  any 
curiosity  after  particulars,  or  any  anxiety  for  her 
sister’s  health. 

Every  qualification  is  raised  at  times,  by  the 
circumstances  of  the  moment,  to  more  than  its 
real  value;  and  she  was  sometimes  worried  down 
by  officious  condolence  to  rate  good-breeding  as 
more  indispensable  to  comfort  than  good-nature. 

Lady  Middleton  expressed  her  sense  of  the 
affair  about  once  every  day,  or  twice,  if  the  sub¬ 
ject  occurred  very  often,  by  saying,  “It  is  very 
shocking  indeed!”  and  by  the  means  of  this  con¬ 
tinual  though  gentle  vent,  was  able  not  only  to 
see  the  Miss  Dash  woods  from  the  first  without 
the  smallest  emotion,  but  very  soon  to  see  them 
[TO] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


without  recollecting  a  word  of  the  matter;  and 
having  thus  supported  the  dignity  of  her  own 
sex,  and  spoken  her  decided  censure  of  what  was 
wrong  in  the  other,  she  thought  herself  at  liberty 
to  attend  to  the  interest  of  her  own  assemblies, 
and  therefore  determined  (though  rather  against 
the  opinion  of  Sir  John),  as  Mrs  Willoughby 
would  at  once  be  a  woman  of  elegance  and  for¬ 
tune,  to  leave  her  card  with  her  as  soon  as  she 
married. 

Colonel  Brandon’s  delicate  unobtrusive  inqui¬ 
ries  were  never  unwelcome  to  Miss  Dash  wood. 
He  had  abundantly  earned  the  privilege  of  inti¬ 
mate  discussion  of  her  sister’s  disappointment,  by 
the  friendly  zeal  with  which  he  had  endeavoured 
to  soften  it,  and  they  always  conversed  with  con¬ 
fidence.  His  chief  reward  for  the  painful  exer¬ 
tion  of  disclosing  past  sorrows  and  present 
humiliations,  was  given  in  the  pitying  eye  with 
which  Marianne  sometimes  observed  him,  and  the 
gentleness  of  her  voice  whenever  (though  it  did 
not  often  happen)  she  was  obliged,  or  could 
oblige  herself  to  speak  to  him.  These  assured 
him  that  his  exertion  had  produced  an  increase  of 
good-will  towards  himself,  and  these  gave  Elinor 
hopes  of  its  being  farther  augmented  hereafter; 
but  Mrs  J ennings,  who  knew  nothing  of  all  this 
— who  knew  only  that  the  Colonel  continued  as 
grave  as  ever,  and  that  she  could  never  prevail  on 

[W] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


him  to  make  the  offer  himself,  nor  commission 
her  to  make  it  for  him — began  at  the  end  of  two 
days  to  think  that,  instead  of  Midsummer,  they 
would  not  be  married  till  Michaelmas,  and  by  the 
end  of  the  week  that  it  would  not  be  a  match  at 
all.  The  good  understanding  between  the 
Colonel  and  Miss  Dashwood  seemed  rather  to 
declare  that  the  honours  of  the  mulberry-tree,  the 
canal,  and  the  yew  arbour,  would  all  be  made 
over  to  her ;  and  Mrs  Jennings  had  for  some  time 
ceased  to  think  at  all  of  Mr  Ferrars. 

Early  in  February,  within  a  fortnight  from 
the  receipt  of  Willoughby’s  letter,  Elinor  had 
the  painful  office  of  informing  her  sister  that  he 
was  married.  She  had  taken  care  to  have  the 
intelligence  conveyed  to  herself,  as  soon  as  it  was 
known  that  the  ceremony  was  over,  as  she  was 
desirous  that  Marianne  should  not  receive  the 
first  notice  of  it  from  the  public  papers,  which  she 
saw  her  eagerly  examining  every  morning. 

She  received  the  news  with  resolute  composure ; 
made  no  observation  on  it,  and  at  first  shed  no 
tears ;  but  after  a  short  time  they  would  burst  out, 
and  for  the  rest  of  the  day  she  was  in  a  state 
hardly  less  pitiable  than  when  she  first  learnt  to 
expect  the  event. 

The  Willoughbys  left  town  as  soon  as  they 
were  married;  and  Elinor  now  hoped,  as  there 
could  be  no  danger  of  her  seeing  either  of  them, 
[72] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


to  prevail  on  her  sister,  who  had  never  yet  left 
the  house  since  the  blow  first  fell,  to  go  out  again 
by  degrees  as  she  had  done  before. 

About  this  time,  the  two  Miss  Steeles,  lately 
arrived  at  their  cousin’s  house  in  Bartlett’s  Build¬ 
ings,  Holborn,  presented  themselves  again  before 
their  more  grand  relations  in  Conduit  and  Berke- 
ley-street,  and  were  welcomed  by  them  all  with 
great  cordiality. 

Elinor  only  was  sorry  to  see  them.  Their  pres¬ 
ence  always  gave  her  pain,  and  she  hardly  knew 
how  to  make  a  very  gracious  return  to  the  over¬ 
powering  delight  of  Lucy  in  finding  her  still  in 
town. 

“I  should  have  been  quite  disappointed  if  I 
had  not  found  you  here  still/’  said  she  repeatedly, 
with  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  word.  But  I 
always  thought  I  should .  I  was  almost  sure  you 
would  not  leave  London  yet  awhile;  though  you 
told  me,  you  know,  at  Barton,  that  you  should 
not  stay  above  a  month.  But  I  thought,  at  the 
time,  that  you  would  most  likely  change  your 
mind  when  it  came  to  the  point.  It  would  have 
been  such  a  great  pity  to  have  went  away  before 
your  brother  and  sister  came.  And  now,  to  be 
sure,  you  will  be  in  no  hurry  to  be  gone.  I  am 
amazingly  glad  you  did  not  keep  to  your  word.” 

Elinor  perfectly  understood  her,  and  was 
forced  to  use  all  her  self-command  to  make  it 
appear  that  she  did  not. 


[73] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“Well,  my  dear,”  said  Mrs  Jennings,  “and  how 
did  you  travel?” 

“Not  in  the  stage,  I  assure  you,”  replied  Miss 
Steele,  with  quick  exultation;  “we  came  post  all 
the  way,  and  had  a  very  smart  beau  to  attend  us. 
Dr  Davies  was  coming  to  town,  and  so  we 
thought  we’d  join  him  in  a  post-chaise;  and  he 
behaved  very  genteelly,  and  paid  ten  or  twelve 
shillings  more  than  we  did.” 

“Oh,  oh!”  cried  Mrs  Jennings,  “very  pretty, 
indeed !  and  the  doctor  is  a  single  man,  I  warrant 
you.” 

“There  now,”  said  Miss  Steele,  affectedly  sim¬ 
pering;  “everybody  laughs  at  me  so  about  the 
Doctor,  and  I  cannot  think  why.  My  cousins  say 
they  are  sure  I  have  made  a  conquest;  but  for  my 
part  I  declare  I  never  think  about  him  from  one 
hour’s  end  to  another.  ‘Lord!  here  comes  your 
beau,  Nancy,’  my  cousin  said  t’other  day,  when 
she  saw  him  crossing  the  street  to  the  house.  ‘My 
beau,  indeed!’  said  I,  ‘I  cannot  think  who  you 
mean.  The  Doctor  is  no  beau  of  mine.’  ” 

“Aye,  aye,  that  is  very  pretty  talking — but  it 
won’t  do — the  Doctor  is  the  man,  I  see.” 

“No,  indeed!”  replied  her  cousin,  with  affected 
earnestness,  “and  I  beg  you  will  contradict  it,  if 
you  ever  hear  it  talked  of.” 

Mrs  Jennings  directly  gave  her  the  gratifying 
assurance  that  she  certainly  would  not and  Miss 
Steele  was  made  completely  happy. 

[W] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“I  suppose  you  will  go  and  stay  with  your 
brother  and  sister,  Miss  Dashwood,  when  they 
come  to  town,”  said  Lucy,  returning,  after  a  ces¬ 
sation  of  hostile  hints,  to  the  charge. 

“No,  I  do  not  think  we  shall.” 

“Oh,  yes,  I  dare  say  you  will.” 

Elinor  would  not  humour  her  by  farther  oppo¬ 
sition. 

“What  a  charming  thing  it  is  that  Mrs  Dash- 
wood  can  spare  you  both  for  so  long  a  time 
together !” 

“Long  a  time,  indeed!”  interposed  Mrs  Jen¬ 
nings.  “Why,  their  visit  is  but  just  begun!” 

Lucy  was  silenced. 

“I  am  sorry  we  cannot  see  your  sister,  Miss 
Dashwood,”  said  Miss  Steele.  “I  am  sorry  she 
is  not  well;”  for  Marianne  had  left  the  room  on 
their  arrival. 

“You  are  very  good.  My  sister  will  be  equally 
sorry  to  miss  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you ;  but  she 
has  been  very  much  plagued  lately  with  nervous 
headaches,  which  make  her  unfit  for  company  or 
conversation.” 

“Oh,  dear,  that  is  a  great  pity!  but  such  old 
friends  as  Lucy  and  me ! — I  think  she  might  see 
us;  and  I  am  sure  we  would  not  speak  a  word.” 

Elinor,  with  great  civility,  declined  the  pro¬ 
posal.  “Her  sister  was  perhaps  laid  down  upon 
the  bed,  or  in  her  dressing-gown,  and  therefore 
not  able  to  come  to  them.” 


[75] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“Oh,  if  that’s  all,”  cried  Miss  Steele,  “we  can 
just  as  well  go  and  see  her.” 

Elinor  began  to  find  this  impertinence  too 
much  for  her  temper;  but  she  was  saved  the 
trouble  of  checking  it,  by  Lucy’s  sharp  repri¬ 
mand,  which  now,  as  on  many  occasions,  though 
it  did  not  give  much  sweetness  to  the  manners  of 
one  sister,  was  of  advantage  in  governing  those 
of  the  other. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

AFTER  some  opposition,  Marianne  yielded 
to  her  sister’s  entreaties,  and  consented 
to  go  out  with  her  and  Mrs  Jennings, 
one  morning  for  half  an  hour.  She  expressly 
conditioned,  however,  for  paying  no  visits,  and 
would  do  no  more  than  accompany  them  to 
Gray’s  in  Sackville-street,  where  Elinor  was  car¬ 
rying  on  a  negotiation  for  the  exchange  of  a  few 
old-fashioned  jewels  of  her  mother. 

When  they  stopped  at  the  door,  Mrs  Jennings 
recollected  that  there  was  a  lady  at  the  other  end 
of  the  street  on  whom  she  ought  to  call ;  and  as  she 
had  no  business  at  Gray’s,  it  was  resolved,  that 
while  her  young  friends  transacted  theirs,  she 
should  pay  her  visit,  and  return  for  them. 

On  ascending  the  stairs,  the  Miss  Dashwoods 

[*6] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


found  so  many  people  before  them  in  the  room, 
that  there  was  not  a  person  at  liberty  to  attend  to 
their  orders ;  and  they  were  obliged  to  wait.  All 
that  could  be  done  was,  to  sit  down  at  that  end 
of  the  counter  which  seemed  to  promise  the 
quickest  succession ;  one  gentleman  only  was 
standing  there,  and  it  is  probable  that  Elinor  was 
not  without  hope  of  exciting  his  politeness  to  a 
quicker  dispatch.  But  the  correctness  of  his  eye, 
and  the  delicacy  of  his  taste,  proved  to  be  beyond 
his  politeness.  He  was  giving  orders  for  a  tooth¬ 
pick-case  for  himself,  and  till  its  size,  shape,  and 
ornaments  were  determined — all  of  which,  after 
examining  and  debating  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
over  every  toothpick-case  in  the  shop,  were  finally 
arranged  by  his  own  inventive  fancy, — he  had  no 
leisure  to  bestow  any  other  attention  on  the  two 
ladies,  than  what  was  comprised  in  three  or  four 
very  broad  stares;  a  kind  of  notice  which  served 
to  imprint  on  Elinor  the  remembrance  of  a  per¬ 
son  and  face  of  strong,  natural,  sterling  insignifi¬ 
cance,  though  adorned  in  the  first  style  of  fashion. 

Marianne  was  spared  from  the  troublesome 
feelings  of  contempt  and  resentment,  on  this 
impertinent  examination  of  their  features,  and 
on  the  puppyism  of  his  manner  in  deciding  on 
all  the  different  horrors  of  the  different  tooth- 
pick-cases  presented  to  his  inspection,  by  remain¬ 
ing  unconscious  of  it  all;  for  she  was  as  well 

m 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


able  to  collect  her  thoughts  within  herself,  and 
be  as  ignorant  of  what  was  passing  around  her,  in 
Mr  Gray’s  shop,  as  in  her  own  bed-room. 

At  last  the  affair  was  decided.  The  ivory,  the 
gold,  and  the  pearls,  all  received  their  appoint¬ 
ment,  and  the  gentleman  having  named  the  last 
day  on  which  his  existence  could  be  continued 
without  the  possession  of  the  toothpick-case,  drew 
on  his  gloves  with  leisurely  care,  and  bestowing 
another  glance  on  the  Miss  Dashwoods,  but  such 
a  one  as  seemed  rather  to  demand  than  express 
admiration,  walked  off  with  an  happy  air  of  real 
conceit  and  aff  ected  indiff erence. 

Elinor  lost  no  time  in  bringing  her  business 
forward,  and  was  on  the  point  of  concluding  it, 
when  another  gentleman  presented  himself  at  her 
side.  She  turned  her  eyes  towards  his  face,  and 
found  him  with  some  surprise  to  be  her  brother. 

Their  affection  and  pleasure  in  meeting  was 
just  enough  to  make  a  very  creditable  appearance 
in  Mr  Gray’s  shop.  John  Dashwood  was  really 
far  from  being  sorry  to  see  his  sisters  again;  it 
rather  gave  them  satisfaction;  and  his  inquiries 
after  their  mother  were  respectful  and  attentive. 

Elinor  found  that  he  and  Fanny  had  been  in 
town  two  days. 

“I  wished  very  much  to  call  upon  you  yester¬ 
day,”  said  he,  “but  it  was  impossible,  for  we  were 
obliged  to  take  Harry  to  see  the  wild  beasts  at 
[W] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Exeter  Exchange:  and  we  spent  the  rest  of  the 
day  with  Mrs  Ferrars.  Harry  was  vastly 
pleased.  This  morning  I  had  fully  intended  to 
call  on  you,  if  I  could  possibly  find  a  spare  half- 
hour,  but  one  has  always  so  much  to  do  on  first 
coming  to  town!  I  am  come  here  to  bespeak 
Fanny  a  seal.  But  to-morrow  I  think  I  shall 
certainly  be  able  to  call  in  Berkeley-street,  and 
be  introduced  to  your  friend  Mrs  Jennings.  I 
understand  she  is  a  woman  of  very  good  fortune. 
And  the  Middletons  too,  you  must  introduce  me 
to  them .  As  my  mother-in-law’s  relations,  I  shall 
be  happy  to  shew  them  every  respect.  They  are 
excellent  neighbours  to  you  in  the  country,  I 
understand.” 

“Excellent  indeed.  Their  attention  to  our 
comfort,  their  friendliness  in  every  particular,  is 
more  than  I  can  express.” 

“I  am  extremely  glad  to  hear  it,  upon  my 
word ;  extremely  glad  indeed  .  But  so  it  ought  to 
be;  they  are  people  of  large  fortune,  they  are 
related  to  you,  and  every  civility  and  accommo¬ 
dation  that  can  serve  to  make  your  situation 
pleasant,  might  be  reasonably  expected.  And  so 
you  are  most  comfortably  settled  in  your  little 
cottage,  and  want  for  nothing.  Edward  brought 
us  a  most  charming  account  of  the  place;  the 
most  complete  thing  of  its  kind,  he  said,  that  ever 
was,  and  you  all  seemed  to  enjoy  it  beyond  any- 

[79] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


thing.  It  was  a  great  satisfaction  to  us  to  hear 
it,  I  assure  you.” 

Elinor  did  feel  a  little  ashamed  of  her  brother; 
and  was  not  sorry  to  be  spared  the  necessity  of 
answering  him,  by  the  arrival  of  Mrs  J ennings’s 
servant,  who  came  to  tell  her  that  his  mistress 
waited  for  them  at  the  door. 

Mr  Dashwood  attended  them  down  stairs,  was 
introduced  to  Mrs  Jennings  at  the  door  of  her 
carriage,  and  repeating  his  hope  of  being  able  to 
call  on  them  the  next  day,  took  leave. 

His  visit  was  duly  paid.  He  came  with  a  pre¬ 
tence  at  an  apology  from  their  sister-in-law,  for 
not  coming  too;  “but  she  was  so  much  engaged 
with  her  mother,  that  really  she ’had  no  leisure  for 
going  anywhere.”  Mrs  Jennings,  however, 
assured  him  directly,  that  she  should  not  stand 
upon  ceremony,  for  they  were  all  cousins,  or 
something  like  it,  and  she  should  certainly  wait 
on  Mrs  John  Dashwood  very  soon,  and  bring 
her  sisters  to  see  her.  His  manners  to  them , 
though  calm,  were  perfectly  kind;  to  Mrs  Jen¬ 
nings,  most  attentively  civil;  and  on  Colonel 
Brandon’s  coming  in  soon  after  himself,  he  eyed 
him  with  a  curiosity  which  seemed  to  say,  that  he 
only  wanted  to  know  him  to  be  rich  to  be  equally 
civil  to  him . 

After  staying  with  them  half  an  hour,  he  asked 
Elinor  to  walk  with  him  to  Conduit-street,  and 
[80] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


introduce  him  to  Sir  John  and  Lady  Middleton. 
The  weather  was  remarkably  fine,  and  she  readily 
consented.  As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  the 
house,  his  inquiries  began. 

“Who  is  Colonel  Brandon?  Is  he  a  man  of 
fortune?” 

“Yes;  he  has  a  very  good  property  in  Dorset¬ 
shire.” 

“I  am  glad  of  it.  He  seems  a  most  gentleman¬ 
like  man,  and  I  think,  Elinor,  I  may  congratulate 
you  on  the  prospect  of  a  very  respectable  estab¬ 
lishment  in  life.” 

“Me,  brother — what  do  you  mean?” 

“He  likes  you.  I  observed  him  narrowly,  and 
am  convinced  of  it.  What  is  the  amount  of  his 
fortune?” 

“I  believe  about  two  thousand  a-year.” 

“Two  thousand  a-year;”  and  then  working 
himself  up  to  a  pitch  of  enthusiastic  generosity, 
he  added : 

“Elinor,  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  it  were  twice 
as  much,  for  your  sake.” 

“Indeed  I  believe  you,”  replied  Elinor,  “but  I 
am  very  sure  that  Colonel  Brandon  has  not  the 
smallest  wish  of  marrying  me .” 

“You  are  mistaken,  Elinor;  you  are  very  much 
mistaken.  A  very  little  trouble  on  your  side 
secures  him.  Perhaps  just  at  present  he  may 
be  undecided;  the  smallness  of  your  fortune  may 

[81] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

make  him  hang  back;  his  friends  may  all  advise 
him  against  it.  But  some  of  those  little  atten¬ 
tions  and  encouragements  which  ladies  can  so 
easily  give,  will  fix  him,  in  spite  of  himself.  And 
there  can  be  no  reason  why  you  should  not  try 
for  him.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  any  prior 
attachment  on  your  side — in  short,  you  know  as 
to  an  attachment  of  that  kind,  it  is  quite  out  of 
the  question,  the  objections  are  insurmountable 
— you  have  too  much  sense  not  to  see  all  that. 
Colonel  Brandon  must  be  the  man ;  and  no  civil¬ 
ity  shall  be  wanting  on  my  part,  to  make  him 
pleased  with  you  and  your  family.  It  is  a  match 
that  must  give  universal  satisfaction.  In  short, 
it  is  a  kind  of  thing  that” — lowering  his  voice  to 
an  important  whisper — “will  be  exceedingly  wel¬ 
come  to  all  parties .”  Recollecting  himself,  how¬ 
ever,  he  added,  “That  is,  I  mean  to  say — your 
friends  are  all  truly  anxious  to  see  you  well  set¬ 
tled,  Fanny  particularly,  for  she  has  your  inter¬ 
est  very  much  at  heart,  I  assure  you.  And  her 
mother  too,  Mrs  Ferrars,  a  very  good-natured 
woman,  I  am  sure  it  would  give  her  great  pleas¬ 
ure,  she  said  as  much  the  other  day.” 

Elinor  would  not  vouchsafe  any  answer. 

“It  would  be  something  remarkable  now,”  he 
continued,  “something  droll,  if  Fanny  should 
have  a  brother  and  I  a  sister  settling  at  the  same 
time.  And  yet  it  is  not  very  unlikely.” 

[82] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“Is  Mr  Edward  Ferrars,”  said  Elinor  with 
resolution,  “going  to  be  married?” 

“It  is  not  actually  settled,  but  there  is  such  a 
thing  in  agitation.  He  has  a  most  excellent 
mother.  Mrs  F errars,  with  the  utmost  liberality, 
will  come  forward,  and  settle  on  him  a  thousand 
a-year,  if  the  match  takes  place.  The  lady  is  the 
Honourable  Miss  Morton,  only  daughter  of  the 
late  Lord  Morton,  with  thirty  thousand  pounds 
— a  very  desirable  connection  on  both  sides,  and 
I  have  not  a  doubt  of  its  taking  place  in  time.  A 
thousand  a-year  is  a  great  deal  for  a  mother  to 
give  away,  to  make  over  for  ever;  but  Mrs  Fer¬ 
rars  has  a  noble  spirit.  To  give  you  another  in¬ 
stance  of  her  liberality: — The  other  day,  as  soon 
as  we  came  to  town,  aware  that  money  could  not 
be  very  plenty  with  us  just  now,  she  put  bank¬ 
notes  into  Fanny’s  hands  to  the  amount  of  two 
hundred  pounds.  And  extremely  acceptable  it  is, 
for  we  must  live  at  a  great  expense  while  we  are 
here.” 

He  paused  for  her  assent  and  compassion;  and 
she  forced  herself  to  say — 

“Your  expenses  both  in  town  and  country  must 
certainly  be  considerable,  but  your  income  is  a 
large  one.” 

“Not  so  large,  I  dare  say,  as  many  people  sup¬ 
pose.  I  do  not  mean  to  complain,  however;  it 
is  undoubtedly  a  comfortable  one,  and,  I  hope, 

[83] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

will  in  time  be  better.  The  inclosure  of  Norland 
Common,  now  carrying  on,  is  a  most  serious 
drain.  And  then  I  have  made  a  little  purchase 
within  this  half-year — East  Kingham  Farm,  you 
must  remember  the  place,  where  old  Gibson  used 
to  live.  The  land  was  so  very  desirable  for  me 
in  every  respect,  so  immediately  adjoining  my 
own  property,  that  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  buy  it.  I 
could  not  have  answered  it  to  my  conscience  to  let 
it  fall  into  any  other  hands.  A  man  must  pay  for 
his  convenience,  and  it  has  cost  me  a  vast  deal  of 
money.” 

“More  than  you  think  it  really  and  intrinsically 
worth?” 

“Why,  I  hope  not  that.  I  might  have  sold  it 
again,  the  next  day,  for  more  than  I  gave:  but 
with  regard  to  the  purchase-money,  I  might  have 
been  very  unfortunate  indeed;  for  the  stocks  were 
at  that  time  so  low,  that  if  I  had  not  happened 
to  have  the  necessary  sum  in  my  banker’s  hands, 
I  must  have  sold  out  to  very  great  loss.” 

Elinor  could  only  smile. 

“Other  great  and  inevitable  expenses  too  we 
have  had  on  first  coming  to  Norland.  Our  re¬ 
spected  father,  as  you  well  know,  bequeathed  all 
the  Stanhill  effects  that  remained  at  Norland 
(and  very  valuable  they  were)  to  your  mother. 
Far  be  it  for  me  to  repine  at  his  doing  so;  he 
had  an  undoubted  right  to  dispose  of  his  own 
[84] 

*—  <?**  ....  • 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY* 


property  as  he  chose.  But,  in  consequence  of  it, 
we  have  been  obliged  to  make  large  purchases  of 
linen,  china,  &c.,  to  supply  the  place  of  what  was 
taken  away.  You  may  guess,  after  all  these  ex¬ 
penses,  how  very  far  we  must  be  from  being 
rich,  and  how  acceptable  Mrs  Ferrars’s  kindness 

is. ” 

“Certainly,”  said  Elinor,  “and  assisted  by  her 
liberality  I  hope  you  may  yet  live  to  be  in  easy 
circumstances.” 

“Another  year  or  two  may  do  much  towards 

it, ”  he  gravely  replied;  “but  however  there  is  still 
a  great  deal  to  be  done.  There  is  not  a  stone  laid 
of  F anny ’s  greenhouse,  and  nothing  but  the  plan 
of  the  flower  garden  marked  out.” 

“Where  is  the  greenhouse  to  be?” 

“Upon  the  knoll  behind  the  house.  The  old 
walnut-trees  are  all  come  down  to  make  room  for 
it.  It  will  be  a  very  fine  object  from  many  parts 
of  the  park,  and  the  flower-garden  will  slope 
down  just  before  it,  and  be  exceedingly  pretty. 
We  have  cleared  away  all  the  old  thorns  that  grew 
in  patches  over  the  brow.” 

Elinor  kept  her  concern  and  her  censure  to  her¬ 
self,  and  was  very  thankful  that  Marianne  was 
not  present  to  share  the  provocation. 

Having  now  said  enough  to  make  his  poverty 
clear,  and  to  do  away  the  necessity  of  buying  a 
pair  of  earrings  for  each  of  his  sisters,  in  his  next 

[85] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


visit  at  Gray’s,  his  thoughts  took  a  cheerfuller 
turn,  and  he  began  to  congratulate  Elinor  on 
having  such  a  friend  as  Mrs  Jennings. 

“She  seems  a  most  valuable  woman  indeed. 
Her  house,  her  style  of  living,  all  bespeak  an 
exceeding  good  income,  and  it  is  an  acquaintance 
that  has  not  only  been  of  great  use  to  you  hith¬ 
erto,  but  in  the  end  may  prove  materially  advan¬ 
tageous.  Her  inviting  you  to  town  is  certainly  a 
vast  thing  in  your  favour;  and,  indeed,  it  speaks 
altogether  so  great  a  regard  for  you,  that  in  all 
probability  when  she  dies  you  will  not  be  for¬ 
gotten.  She  must  have  a  great  deal  to  leave.” 

“Nothing  at  all,  I  should  rather  suppose;  for 
she  has  only  her  jointure,  which  will  descend  to 
her  children.” 

“But  it  is  not  to  be  imagined  that  she  lives  up 
to  her  income.  F ew  people  of  common  prudence 
will  do  that ;  and  whatever  she  saves,  she  will  be 
able  to  dispose  of.” 

“And  do  you  not  think  it  more  likely  that  she 
should  leave  it  to  her  daughters,  than  to  us?” 

“Her  daughters  are  both  exceedingly  well  mar¬ 
ried,  and  therefore  I  cannot  perceive  the  necessity 
of  her  remembering  them  farther.  Whereas,  in 
my  opinion,  by  her  taking  so  much  notice  of  you, 
and  treating  you  in  this  kind  of  way,  she  has 
given  you  a  sort  of  claim  on  her  future  considera¬ 
tion,  which  a  conscientious  woman  would  not  dis- 
[86] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

regard.  Nothing  can  be  kinder  than  her  beha¬ 
viour;  and  she  can  hardly  do  all  this,  without 
being  aware  of  the  expectations  she  raises.” 

“But  she  raises  none  in  those  most  concerned. 
Indeed,  brother,  your  anxiety  for  our  welfare  and 
prosperity  carries  you  too  far.” 

“Why  to  be  sure,”  said  he,  seeming  to  recollect 
himself,  “people  have  little,  have  very  little  in 
their  power.  But,  my  dear  Elinor,  what  is  the 
matter  with  Marianne? — she  looks  very  unwell, 
has  lost  her  colour,  and  is  grown  quite  thin.  Is 
she  ill?” 

“She  is  not  well,  she  has  had  a  nervous  com¬ 
plaint  on  her  for  several  weeks.” 

“I  am  sorry  for  that.  At  her  time  of  life,  any¬ 
thing  of  an  illness  destroys  the  bloom  for  ever! 
Hers  has  been  a  very  short  one!  She  was  as 
handsome  a  girl  last  September  as  any  I  ever 
saw,  and  as  likely  to  attract  the  men.  There  was 
something  in  her  style  of  beauty  to  please  them 
particularly.  I  remember  Fanny  used  to  say  that 
she  would  marry  sooner  and  better  than  you  did ; 
not  but  what  she  is  exceedingly  fond  of  you — but 
so  it  happened  to  strike  her.  She  will  be  mis¬ 
taken,  however.  I  question  whether  Marianne 
now  will  marry  a  man  worth  more  than  five  or 
six  hundred  a-year  at  the  utmost,  and  I  am  very 
much  deceived  if  you  do  not  do  better.  Dorset¬ 
shire!  I  know  very  little  of  Dorsetshire,  but,  my 

[87] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


dear  Elinor,  I  shall  be  exceedingly  glad  to  know 
more  of  it;  and  I  think  I  can  answer  for  your 
having  F anny  and  myself  among  the  earliest  and 
best  pleased  of  your  visitors.” 

Elinor  tried  very  seriously  to  convince  him  that 
there  was  no  likelihood  of  her  marrying  Colonel 
Brandon;  but  it  was  an  expectation  of  too  much 
pleasure  to  himself  to  be  relinquished,  and  he 
was  really  resolved  on  seeking  an  intimacy  with 
that  gentleman,  and  promoting  the  marriage  by 
every  possible  attention.  He  had  just  compunc¬ 
tion  enough  for  having  done  nothing  for  his  sis¬ 
ters  himself,  to  be  exceedingly  anxious  that  every¬ 
body  else  should  do  a  great  deal;  and  an  offer 
from  Colonel  Brandon,  or  a  legacy  from  Mrs 
Jennings,  was  the  easiest  means  of  atoning  for 
his  own  neglect. 

They  were  lucky  enough  to  find  Lady  Mid¬ 
dleton  at  home,  and  Sir  John  came  in  before  their 
visit  ended.  Abundance  of  civilities  passed  on 
all  sides.  Sir  John  was  ready  to  like  anybody, 
and  though  Mr  Dashwood  did  not  seem  to  know 
much  about  horses,  he  soon  set  him  down  as  a 
very  good-natured  fellow;  while  Lady  Middle- 
ton  saw  enough  of  fashion  in  his  appearance  to 
think  his  acquaintance  worth  having;  and  Mr 
Dashwood  went  away  delighted  with  both. 

“I  shall  have  a  charming  account  to  carry  to 
Fanny,”  said  he,  as  he  walked  back  with  his  sis- 
[88] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

ter.  “Lady  Middleton  is  really  a  most  elegant 
woman!  such  a  woman  as  I  am  sure  Fanny  will 
be  glad  to  know.  And  Mrs  Jennings  too,  an 
exceeding  well-behaved  woman,  though  not  so 
elegant  as  her  daughter.  Your  sister  need  not 
have  any  scruple  even  of  visiting  her ,  which,  to 
say  the  truth,  has  been  a  little  the  case,  and  very 
naturally;  for  we  only  knew  that  Mrs  Jennings 
was  the  widow  of  a  man  who  had  got  all  his 
money  in  a  low  way;  and  Fanny  and  Mrs  Fer- 
rars  were  both  strongly  prepossessed  that  neither 
she  nor  her  daughters  were  such  kind  of  women 
as  F anny  would  like  to  associate  with.  But  now 
I  can  carry  her  a  most  satisfactory  account  of 
both.” 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

MRS  JOHN  DASHWOOD  had  so  much 
confidence  in  her  husband’s  judgment, 
that  she  waited  the  very  next  day  both 
on  Mrs  Jennings  and  her  daughter;  and  her  con¬ 
fidence  was  rewarded  by  finding  even  the  former, 
even  the  woman  with  whom  her  sisters  were  stay¬ 
ing,  by  no  means  unworthy  her  notice;  and  as 
for  Lady  Middleton,  she  found  her  one  of  the 
most  charming  women  in  the  world ! 

Lady  Middleton  was  equally  pleased  with  Mrs 

[89]  . 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

Dashwood.  There  was  a  kind  of  cold-hearted 
selfishness  on  both  sides,  which  mutually  attracted 
them ;  and  they  sympathised  with  each  other  in  an 
insipid  propriety  of  demeanour,  and  a  general 
want  of  understanding. 

The  same  manners,  however,  which  recom¬ 
mended  Mrs  John  Dashwood  to  the  good  opinion 
of  Lady  Middleton,  did  not  suit  the  fancy  of 
Mrs  Jennings,  and  to  her  she  appeared  nothing 
more  than  a  little  proud-looking  woman  of  un¬ 
cordial  address,  who  met  her  husband’s  sisters 
without  any  aff  ection,  and  almost  without  having 
anything  to  say  to  them;  for  of  the  quarter  of  an 
hour  bestowed  on  Berkeley-street,  she  sat  at  least 
seven  minutes  and  a  half  in  silence. 

Elinor  wanted  very  much  to  know,  though  she 
did  not  chuse  to  ask,  whether  Edward  was  then 
in  town ;  but  nothing  would  have  induced  F anny 
voluntarily  to  mention  his  name  before  her,  till 
able  to  tell  her  that  his  marriage  with  Miss  Mor¬ 
ton  was  resolved  on,  or  till  her  husband’s  expecta¬ 
tions  on  Colonel  Brandon  were  answered ;  because 
she  believed  them  still  so  very  much  attached  to 
each  other,  that  they  could  not  be  too  sedulously 
divided  in  word  and  deed  on  every  occasion.  The 
intelligence,  however,  which  she  would  not  give, 
soon  flowed  from  another  quarter.  Lucy  came 
very  shortly  to  claim  Elinor’s  compassion  on 
being  unable  to  see  Edward,  though  he  had  ar- 
[90] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


rived  in  town  with  Mr  and  Mrs  Dashwood.  He 
dared  not  come  to  Bartlett’s  Buildings  for  fear 
of  detection,  and  though  their  mutual  impatience 
to  meet  was  not  to  be  told,  they  could  do  nothing 
at  present  but  write. 

Edward  assured  them  himself  of  his  being  in 
town,  within  a  very  short  time,  by  twice  calling 
in  Berkeley-street.  Twice  was  his  card  found  on 
the  table,  when  they  returned  from  their  morn¬ 
ing’s  engagements.  Elinor  was  pleased  that  he 
had  called,  and  still  more  pleased  that  she  had 
missed  him. 

The  Dash  woods  were  so  prodigiously  delighted 
with  the  Middletons  that  though  not  much  in  the 
habit  of  giving  anything,  they  determined  to  give 
them  a  dinner,  and  soon  after  their  acquaintance 
began,  invited  them  to  dine  in  Harley-street, 
where  they  had  taken  a  very  good  house  for  three 
months.  Their  sisters  and  Mrs  Jennings  were 
invited  likewise,  and  John  Dashwood  was  careful 
to  secure  Colonel  Brandon,  who,  always  glad  to 
be  where  the  Miss  Dashwoods  were,  received  his 
eager  civilities  with  some  surprise,  but  much  more 
pleasure.  They  were  to  meet  Mrs  Ferrars;  but 
Elinor  could  not  learn  whether  her  sons  were  to 
be  of  the  party.  The  expectation  of  seeing  her , 
however,  was  enough  to  make  her  interested  in 
the  engagement;  for  though  she  could  now  meet 
Edward’s  mother  without  that  strong  anxiety 

[91] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


which  had  once  promised  to  attend  such  an  intro*' 
duction,  though  she  could  now  see  her  with  per¬ 
fect  indifference,  as  to  her  opinion  of  herself,  her 
desire  of  being  in  company  with  Mrs  F errars,  her 
curiosity  to  know  what  she  was  like,  was  as  lively 
as  ever. 

The  interest  with  which  she  thus  anticipated 
the  party,  was  soon  afterwards  increased,  more 
powerfully  than  pleasantly,  by  her  hearing  that 
the  Miss  Steeles  were  also  to  be  at  it. 

So  well  had  they  recommended  themselves  to 
Lady  Middleton,  so  agreeable  had  their  assidui¬ 
ties  made  them  to  her,  that  though  Lucy  was  cer¬ 
tainly  not  elegant,  and  her  sister  not  even  gen¬ 
teel,  she  was  as  ready  as  Sir  John  to  ask  them  to 
spend  a  week  or  two  in  Conduit-street;  and  it 
happened  to  be  particularly  convenient  to  the 
Miss  Steeles,  as  soon  as  the  Dashwoods’  invita¬ 
tion  was  known,  that  their  visit  should  begin  a 
few  days  before  the  party  took  place. 

Their  claims  to  the  notice  of  Mrs  John  Dash- 
wood,  as  the  nieces  of  the  gentleman  who  for 
many  years  had  had  the  care  of  her  brother, 
might  not  have  done  much,  however,  towards  pro¬ 
curing  them  seats  at  her  table ;  but  as  Lady  Mid¬ 
dleton’s  guests  they  must  be  welcome ;  and  Lucy, 
who  had  long  wanted  to  be  personally  known  to 
the  family,  to  have  a  nearer  view  of  their  char¬ 
acters  and  her  own  difficulties,  and  to  have  an 
[92] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


opportunity  of  endeavouring  to  please  them,  had 
seldom  been  happier  in  her  life  than  she  was  on 
receiving  Mrs  John  Dashwood’s  card. 

On  Elinor  its  effect  was  very  different.  She 
began  immediately  to  determine  that  Edward, 
who  lived  with  his  mother,  must  be  asked,  as  his 
mother  was,  to  a  party  given  by  his  sister ;  and  to 
see  him  for  the  first  time,  after  all  that  [had] 
passed,  in  the  company  of  Lucy! — she  hardly 
knew  how  she  could  bear  it ! 

These  apprehensions  perhaps  were  not  founded 
entirely  on  reason,  and  certainly  not  at  all  on 
truth.  They  were  relieved,  however,  not  by  her  * 
own  recollection,  but  by  the  goodwill  of  Lucy, 
who  believed  herself  to  be  inflicting  a  severe  dis¬ 
appointment  when  she  told  her  that  Edward  cer¬ 
tainly  would  not  be  in  Harley-street  on  Tuesday, 
and  even  hoped  to  be  carrying  the  pain  still 
farther  by  persuading  her,  that  he  was  kept  away 
by  that  extreme  affection  for  herself,  which  he 
could  not  conceal  when  they  were  together. 

The  important  Tuesday  came  that  was  to  intro¬ 
duce  the  two  young  ladies  to  this  formidable 
mother-in-law. 

“Pity  me,  dear  Miss  Dashwood!”  said  Lucy,  as 
they  walked  up  the  stairs  together — for  the  Mid¬ 
dletons  arrived  so  directly  after  Mrs  Jennings, 
that  they  all  followed  the  servant  at  the  same 
time — “There  is  nobody  here  but  you,  that  can 

[93] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

f  eel  f or  me.  I  declare  I  can  hardly  stand.  Good 
gracious! — In  a  moment  I  shall  see  the  person 
that  all  my  happiness  depends  on — that  is  to  be 
my  mother!” — 

Elinor  could  have  given  her  immediate  relief 
by  suggesting  the  possibility  of  its  being  Miss 
Morton’s  mother,  rather  than  her  own,  whom  they 
were  about  to  behold;  but  instead  of  doing  that, 
she  assured  her,  and  with  great  sincerity,  that  she 
did  pity  her, — to  the  utter  amazement  of  Lucy, 
who,  though  really  uncomfortable  herself,  hoped 
at  least  to  be  an  object  of  irrepressible  envy  to 
Elinor. 

Mrs  Ferrars  was  a  little,  thin  woman,  upright, 
even  to  formality,  in  her  figure,  and  serious,  even 
to  sourness,  in  her  aspect.  Her  complexion  was 
sallow:  and  her  features  small,  without  beauty, 
and  naturally  without  expression:  but  a  lucky 
contraction  of  the  brow  had  rescued  her  coun¬ 
tenance  from  the  disgrace  of  insipidity,  by  giving 
it  the  strong  characters  of  pride  and  ill-nature. 
She  was  not  a  woman  of  many  words;  for,  un¬ 
like  people  in  general,  she  proportioned  them  to 
the  number  of  her  ideas:  and  of  the  few  syllables 
that  did  escape  her,  not  one  fell  to  the  share  of 
Miss  Dashwood,  whom  she  eyed  with  the  spirited 
determination  of  disliking  her  at  all  events. 

Elinor  could  not  now  be  made  unhappy  by  this 
behaviour.  A  few  months  ago  it  would  have 
[94] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


hurt  her  exceedingly ;  but  it  was  not  in  Mrs  F er- 
rars’s  power  to  distress  her  by  it  now ;  and  the  dif¬ 
ference  of  her  manners  to  the  Miss  Steeles — a 
diff erence  which  seemed  purposely  made  to 
humble  her  more — only  amused  her.  She  could 
not  but  smile  to  see  the  graciousness  of  both 
mother  and  daughter  towards  the  very  person — 
for  Lucy  was  particularly  distinguished — whom 
of  all  others,  had  they  known  as  much  as  she  did, 
they  would  have  been  most  anxious  to  mortify; 
while  she  herself,  who  had  comparatively  no 
power  to  wound  them,  sat  pointedly  slighted  by 
both.  But  while  she  smiled  at  a  graciousness  so 
misapplied,  she  could  not  reflect  on  the  mean- 
spirited  folly  from  which  it  sprung,  nor  observe 
the  studied  attentions  with  which  the  Miss  Steeles 
courted  its  continuance,  without  thoroughly  de¬ 
spising  them  all  f our. 

Lucy  was  all  exultation  on  being  so  honourably 
distinguished;  and  Miss  Steele  wanted  only  to  be 
teazed  about  Dr  Davi[e]s  to  be  perfectly  happy. 

The  dinner  was  a  grand  one,  the  servants  were 
numerous,  and  everything  bespoke  the  Mistress’s 
inclination  for  shew,  and  the  Master’s  ability  to 
support  it.  In  spite  of  the  improvements  and 
additions  which  were  making  to  the  Norland 
estate,  and  in  spite  of  its  owner  having  once  been 
within  some  thousand  pounds  of  being  obliged  to 
sell  out  at  a  loss,  nothing  gave  any  symptom  of 

[«] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


that  indigence  which  he  had  tried  to  infer  from  it; 
no  poverty  of  any  kind,  except  of  conversation, 
appeared — but  there  the  deficiency  was  consider¬ 
able.  John  Dash  wood  had  not  much  to  say  for 
himself  that  was  worth  hearing,  and  his  wife  had 
still  less.  But  there  was  no  peculiar  disgrace  in 
this,  for  it  was  very  much  the  case  with  the  chief 
of  their  visitors,  who  almost  all  laboured  under 
one  or  other  of  these  disqualifications  for  being 
agreeable — want  of  sense,  either  natural  or  im¬ 
proved,  want  of  elegance,  want  of  spirits,  or  want 
of  temper. 

When  the  ladies  withdrew  to  the  drawing-room 
after  dinner,  this  poverty  was  particularly  evi¬ 
dent,  for  the  gentlemen  had  supplied  the  dis¬ 
course  with  some  variety — the  variety  of  politics, 
inclosing  land,  and  breaking  horses — but  then  it 
was  all  over,  and  one  subject  only  engaged  the 
ladies  till  coff  ee  came  in,  which  was  the  compara¬ 
tive  heights  of  Harry  Dashwood,  and  Lady  Mid¬ 
dleton’s  second  son  William,  who  were  nearly  of 
the  same  age. 

Had  both  the  children  been  there,  the  affair 
might  have  been  determined  too  easily  by  meas¬ 
uring  them  at  once ;  but  as  Harry  only  was  pres¬ 
ent,  it  was  all  conjectural  assertion  on  both  sides, 
and  everybody  had  a  right  to  be  equally  positive 
in  their  opinion,  and  to  repeat  it  over  and  over 
again  as  often  as  they  liked. 

[96] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


The  parties  stood  thus : 

The  two  mothers,  though  each  really  convinced 
that  her  own  son  was  the  tallest,  politely  decided 
in  favour  of  the  other. 

The  two  grandmothers,  with  not  less  partiality, 
but  more  sincerity,  were  equally  earnest  in  sup¬ 
port  of  their  own  descendant. 

Lucy,  who  was  hardly  less  anxious  to  please 
one  parent  than  the  other,  thought  the  boys  were 
both  remarkably  tall  for  their  age,  and  could  not 
conceive  that  there  could  be  the  smallest  differ¬ 
ence  in  the  world  between  them ;  and  Miss  Steele, 
with  yet  greater  address,  gave  it,  as  fast  as  she 
could,  in  favour  of  each. 

Elinor,  having  once  delivered  her  opinion  on 
William’s  side,  by  which  she  offended  Mrs  Fer- 
rars,  and  F anny  still  more,  did  not  see  the  neces¬ 
sity  of  enforcing  it  by  any  farther  assertion;  and 
Marianne,  when  called  on  for  hers,  offended  them 
all  by  declaring  that  she  had  no  opinion  to  give, 
as  she  had  never  thought  about  it. 

Before  her  removing  from  Norland,  Elinor 
had  painted  a  very  pretty  pair  of  screens  for  her 
sister-in-law,  which  being  now  just  mounted  and 
brought  home,  ornamented  her  present  drawing¬ 
room;  and  these  screens  catching  the  eye  of  John 
Dash  wood  on  his  following  the  other  gentlemen 
into  the  room,  were  officiously  handed  by  him  to 
Colonel  Brandon  for  his  admiration. 


[97] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“These  are  done  by  my  eldest  sister,”  said  he; 
“and  you,  as  a  man  of  taste,  will,  I  dare  say,  be 
pleased  with  them.  I  do  not  know  whether  you 
ever  happened  to  see  any  of  her  performances 
before,  but  she  is  in  general  reckoned  to  draw 
extremely  well.” 

The  Colonel,  though  disclaiming  all  preten¬ 
sions  to  connoisseurship,  warmly  admired  the 
screens,  as  he  would  have  done  anything  painted 
by  Miss  Dashwood;  and  the  curiosity  of  the 
others  being  of  course  excited,  they  were  handed 
round  for  general  inspection.  Mrs  Ferrars,  not 
aware  of  their  being  Elinor’s  work,  particularly 
requested  to  look  at  them;  and  after  they  had 
received  the  gratifying  testimony  of  Lady  Mid¬ 
dleton’s  approbation,  Fanny  presented  them  to 
her  mother,  considerately  informing  her  at  the 
same  time  that  they  were  done  by  Miss  Dash- 
wood. 

“Hum” — said  Mrs  Ferrars — “very  pretty,” — 
and  without  regarding  them  at  all,  returned  them 
to  her  daughter. 

Perhaps  Fanny  thought  for  a  moment  that  her 
mother  had  been  quite  rude  enough, — for,  col¬ 
ouring  a  little,  she  immediately  said, 

“They  are  very  pretty,  ma’am — an’t  they?” 
But  then  again,  the  dread  of  having  been  too 
civil,  too  encouraging  herself,  probably  came 
over  her,  for  she  presently  added, 

[98] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

“Do  you  not  think  they  are  something  in  Miss 
Morton’s  style  of  painting,  ma’am?  She  does 
paint  most  delightfully.  How  beautifully  her 
last  landscape  is  done!” 

“Beautifully  indeed.  But  she  does  everything 
well.” 

Marianne  could  not  bear  this.  She  was  already 
greatly  displeased  with  Mrs  Ferrars;  and  such 
ill-timed  praise  of  another,  at  Elinor’s  expense, 
though  she  had  not  any  notion  of  what  was  prin¬ 
cipally  meant  by  it,  provoked  her  immediately  to 
say  with  warmth, 

“This  is  admiration  of  a  very  particular  kind! 
What  is  Miss  Morton  to  us?  Who  knows  or  who 
cares  for  her?  It  is  Elinor  of  whom  we  think 
and  speak.” 

And  so  saying,  she  took  the  screens  out  of  her 
sister-in-law’s  hands  to  admire  them  herself  as 
they  ought  to  be  admired. 

Mrs  Ferrars  looked  exceedingly  angry,  and 
drawing  herself  up  more  stiffly  than  ever,  pro¬ 
nounced  in  retort  this  bitter  [philippic] :  “Miss 
Morton  is  Lord  Morton’s  daughter.” 

F anny  looked  very  angry  too,  and  her  husband 
was  all  in  a  fright  at  his  sister’s  audacity.  Elinor 
was  much  more  hurt  by  Marianne’s  warmth,  than 
she  had  been  by  what  produced  it;  but  Colonel 
Brandon’s  eyes,  as  they  were  fixed  on  Marianne, 
declared  that  he  noticed  only  what  was  amiable 

[99] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


in  it;  the  affectionate  heart  which  could  not  bear 
to  see  a  sister  slighted  in  the  smallest  point. 

Marianne’s  feelings  did  not  stop  here.  The 
cold  insolence  of  Mrs  Ferrars’s  general  behaviour 
to  her  sister,  seemed,  to  her,  to  foretel  such  diffi¬ 
culties  and  distresses  to  Elinor,  as  her  own 
wounded  heart  taught  her  to  think  of  with  horror ; 
and  urged  by  a  strong  impulse  of  affectionate 
sensibility,  she  moved,  after  a  moment,  to  her 
sister’s  chair,  and  putting  one  arm  round  her  neck, 
and  one  cheek  close  to  hers,  said  in  a  low,  but 
eager  voice : 

“Dear,  dear  Elinor,  don’t  mind  them.  Don’t 
let  them  make  you  unhappy.” 

She  could  say  no  more;  her  spirits  were  quite 
overcome,  and  hiding  her  face  on  Elinor’s  shoul¬ 
der,  she  burst  into  tears.  Everybody’s  attention 
was  called,  and  almost  everybody  was  concerned. 
Colonel  Brandon  rose  up  and  went  to  them  with¬ 
out  knowing  what  he  did.  Mrs  Jennings,  with 
a  very  intelligent  “Ah!  poor  dear,”  immediately 
gave  her  her  salts;  and  Sir  John  felt  so  desper¬ 
ately  enraged  against  the  author  of  this  nervous 
distress,  that  he  instantly  changed  his  seat  to  one 
close  by  Lucy  Steele,  and  gave  her,  in  a  whisper, 
a  brief  account  of  the  whole  shocking  affair. 

In  a  few  minutes,  however,  Marianne  was  re¬ 
covered  enough  to  put  an  end  to  the  bustle,  and 
sit  down  among  the  rest;  though  her  spirits  re- 
[100] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

tained  the  impression  of  what  had  passed,  the 
whole  evening. 

“Poor  Marianne!”  said  her  brother  to  Colonel 
Brandon  in  a  low  voice,  as  soon  as  he  could  secure 
his  attention,  “She  has  not  such  good  health  as 
her  sister, — she  is  very  nervous, — she  has  not  Eli¬ 
nor’s  constitution ;  and  one  must  allow  that  there 
is  something  very  trying  to  a  young  woman  who 
has  been  a  beauty,  in  the  loss  of  her  personal 
attractions.  You  would  not  think  it  perhaps,  but 
Marianne  was  remarkably  handsome  a  few 
months  ago — quite  as  handsome  as  Elinor.  Now 
you  see  it  is  all  gone.” 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

ELINOR’S  curiosity  to  see  Mrs  Ferrars  was 
satisfied.  She  had  found  in  her  every¬ 
thing  that  could  tend  to  make  a  farther 
connection  between  the  f  amilies  undesirable.  She 
had  seen  enough  of  her  pride,  her  meanness,  and 
her  determined  prejudice  against  herself,  to 
comprehend  all  the  difficulties  that  must  have  per¬ 
plexed  the  engagement,  and  retarded  the  mar¬ 
riage  of  Edward  and  herself,  had  he  been  other¬ 
wise  free;  and  she  had  seen  almost  enough  to  be 
thankful  for  her  own  sake,  that  one  greater 

[101] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


obstacle  preserved  her  from  suffering  under  any 
other  of  Mrs  Ferrars’s  creation,  preserved  her 
from  all  dependence  upon  her  caprice,  or  any 
solicitude  for  her  good  opinion.  Or  at  least,  if 
she  did  not  bring  herself  quite  to  rejoice  in 
Edward’s  being  fettered  to  Lucy,  she  deter¬ 
mined,  that  had  Lucy  been  more  amiable,  she 
ought  to  have  rejoiced. 

She  wondered  that  Lucy’s  spirits  could  be  so 
very  much  elevated  by  the  civility  of  Mrs  Fer- 
rars;  that  her  interest  and  her  vanity  should  so 
very  much  blind  her,  as  to  make  the  attention 
which  seemed  only  paid  her  because  she  was  not 
Elinor >  appear  a  compliment  to  herself — or  to 
allow  her  to  derive  encouragement  from  a  pref¬ 
erence  only  given  her,  because  her  real  situation 
was  unknown.  But  that  it  was  so,  had  not  only 
been  declared  by  Lucy’s  eyes  at  the  time,  but  was 
declared  over  again  the  next  morning  more 
openly;  for,  at  her  particular  desire,  Lady  Mid¬ 
dleton  set  her  down  in  Berkeley-street  on  the 
chance  of  seeing  Elinor  alone,  to  tell  her  how 
happy  she  was. 

The  chance  proved  a  lucky  one,  for  a  message 
from  Mrs  Palmer,  soon  after  she  arrived,  carried 
Mrs  Jennings  away. 

4 ‘My  dear  friend,”  cried  Lucy  as  soon  as  they 
were  by  themselves,  “I  come  to  talk  to  you  of 
my  happiness.  Could  anything  be  so  flattering 
[102] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


as  Mrs  Ferrars’s  way  of  treating  me  yesterday? 
So  exceedingly  affable  as  she  was!  You  know 
how  I  dreaded  the  thoughts  of  seeing  her;  but 
the  very  moment  I  was  introduced,  there  was  such 
an  affability  in  her  behaviour  as  really  should 
seem  to  say,  she  had  quite  took  a  fancy  to  me. 
Now  was  not  it  so?  You  saw  it  all;  and  was  not 
you  quite  struck  with  it?” 

“She  was  certainly  very  civil  to  you.” 

“Civil! — Did  you  see  nothing  but  only  civility? 
I  saw  a  vast  deal  more — such  kindness  as  fell  to 
the  share  of  nobody  but  me!  No  pride,  no 
hauteur,  and  your  sister  just  the  same — all  sweet¬ 
ness  and  affability!” 

Elinor  wished  to  talk  of  something  else,  but 
Lucy  still  pressed  her  to  own  that  she  had  reason 
for  her  happiness,  and  Elinor  was  obliged  to  go 
on. 

“Undoubtedly,  if  they  had  known  your  en¬ 
gagement,”  said  she,  “nothing  could  be  more  flat¬ 
tering  than  their  treatment  of  you;  but  as  that 
was  not  the  case — ” 

“I  guessed  you  would  say  so,”  replied  Lucy 
quickly;  “but  there  was  no  reason  in  the  world 
why  Mrs  Ferrars  should  seem  to  like  me,  if  she 
did  not — and  her  liking  me  is  everything.  You 
shan’t  talk  me  out  of  my  satisfaction.  I  am 
sure  it  will  all  end  well,  and  there  will  be  no  diffi¬ 
culties  at  all,  to  what  I  used  to  think.  Mrs  Fer- 

[103] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

rars  is  a  charming  woman,  and  so  is  your  sister. 
They  are  both  delightful  women  indeed! — I 
wonder  I  should  never  hear  you  say  how  agree¬ 
able  Mrs  Dash  wood  was  !” 

To  this  Elinor  had  no  answer  to  make,  and  did 
not  attempt  any. 

“Are  you  ill,  Miss  Dash  wood? — you  seem  low 
— you  don’t  speak; — sure,  you  an’t  well.” 

“I  never  was  in  better  health.” 

“I  am  glad  of  it  with  all  my  heart,  but  really 
you  did  not  look  it.  I  should  be  so  sorry  to  have 
you  ill, — you  that  have  been  the  greatest  comfort 
to  me  in  the  world! — Heaven  knows  what  I 
should  have  done  without  your  friendship.” 

Elinor  tried  to  make  a  civil  answer,  though 
doubting  her  own  success.  But  it  seemed  to  sat¬ 
isfy  Lucy,  for  she  directly  replied: 

“Indeed  I  am  perfectly  convinced  of  your  re¬ 
gard  for  me,  and  next  to  Edward’s  love,  it  is  the 
greatest  comfort  I  have.  Poor  Edward!  But 
now,  there  is  one  good  thing — we  shall  be  able  to 
meet,  and  meet  pretty  often,  for  Lady  Middle¬ 
ton’s  delighted  with  Mrs  Dashwood,  so  we  shall 
be  a  good  deal  in  Harley-street,  I  dare  say,  and 
Edward  spends  half  his  time  with  his  sister — 
besides,  Lady  Middleton  and  Mrs  Ferrars  will 
visit  now;  and  Mrs  Ferrars  and  your  sister  were 
both  so  good  to  say  more  than  once,  they  should 
always  be  glad  to  see  me. — They  are  such  charm- 
[104] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

ing  women! — I  am  sure  if  ever  you  tell  your  sis¬ 
ter  what  I  think  of  her,  you  cannot  speak  too 
high.” 

But  Elinor  would  not  give  her  any  encourage¬ 
ment  to  hope  that  she  should  tell  her  sister.  Lucy 
continued : 

“I  am  sure  I  should  have  seen  it  in  a  moment, 
if  Mrs  Ferrars  had  took  a  dislike  to  me.  If  she 
had  only  made  me  a  formal  curtsey,  for  instance, 
without  saying  a  word,  and  never  after  had 
took  any  notice  of  me,  and  never  looked  at  me  in 
a  pleasant  way — you  know  what  I  mean — if  I 
had  been  treated  in  that  forbidding  sort  of  way,  I 
should  have  gave  it  all  up  in  despair.  I  could  not 
have  stood  it.  F or  where  she  does  dislike,  I  know 
it  is  most  violent.” 

Elinor  was  prevented  from  making  any  reply 
to  this  civil  triumph,  by  the  door’s  being  thrown 
open,  the  servant’s  announcing  Mr  Ferrars,  and 
Edward’s  immediately  walking  in. 

It  was  a  very  awkward  moment ;  and  the  coun¬ 
tenance  of  each  shewed  that  it  was  so.  They  all 
looked  exceedingly  foolish;  and  Edward  seemed 
to  have  as  great  an  inclination  to  walk  out  of  the 
room  again,  as  to  advance  farther  into  it.  The 
very  circumstance,  in  its  unpleasantest  form, 
which  they  would  each  have  been  most  anxious  to 
avoid,  had  fallen  on  them — they  were  not  only 
all  three  together,  but  were  together  without  the 

[105] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

relief  of  any  other  person.  The  ladies  recovered 
themselves  first.  It  was  not  Lucy’s  business  to 
put  herself  forward,  and  the  appearance  of 
secrecy  must  still  be  kept  up.  She  could  there¬ 
fore  only  look  her  tenderness,  and  after  slightly 
addressing  him,  said  no  more. 

But  Elinor  had  more  to  do;  and  so  anxious 
was  she,  for  his  sake  and  her  own,  to  do  it  well, 
that  she  forced  herself  after  a  moment’s  recollec¬ 
tion,  to  welcome  him,  with  a  look  and  manner, 
that  were  almost  easy  and  almost  open;  and 
another  struggle,  another  effort  still  improved 
them.  She  would  not  allow  the  presence  of  Lucy, 
nor  the  consciousness  of  some  injustice  towards 
herself,  to  deter  her  from  saying  that  she  was 
happy  to  see  him,  and  that  she  had  very  much  re¬ 
gretted  being  from  home,  when  he  called  before 
in  Berkeley-street.  She  would  not  be  frightened 
from  paying  him  those  attentions  which,  as  a 
friend  and  almost  a  relation,  were  his  due,  by  the 
observant  eyes  of  Lucy,  though  she  soon  per¬ 
ceived  them  to  be  narrowly  watching  her. 

Her  manners  gave  some  reassurance  to 
Edward,  and  he  had  courage  enough  to  sit  down; 
but  his  embarrassment  still  exceeded  that  of  the 
ladies  in  a  proportion  which  the  case  rendered 
reasonable,  though  his  sex  might  make  it  rare ;  f  or 
his  heart  had  not  the  indifference  of  Lucy’s,  nor 
could  his  conscience  have  quite  the  ease  of 
Elinor’s. 

[106] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Lucy,  with  a  demure  and  settled  air,  seemed 
determined  to  make  no  contribution  to  the  com¬ 
fort  of  the  others,  and  would  not  say  a  word;  and 
almost  everything  that  was  said,  proceeded  from 
Elinor,  who  was  obliged  to  volunteer  all  the  infor¬ 
mation  about  her  mother’s  health,  their  coming  to 
town,  &c.,  which  Edward  ought  to  have  inquired 
about,  but  never  did. 

Her  exertions  did  not  stop  here;  for  she  soon 
afterwards  felt  herself  so  heroically  disposed  as 
to  determine,  under  pretence  of  fetching  Mari¬ 
anne,  to  leave  the  others  by  themselves;  and  she 
really  did  it,  and  that  in  the  handsomest  manner, 
for  she  loitered  away  several  minutes  on  the  land¬ 
ing  place,  with  the  most  high-minded  fortitude, 
before  she  went  to  her  sister.  When  that  was 
once  done,  however,  it  was  time  for  the  raptures 
of  Edward  to  cease;  for  Marianne’s  joy  hurried 
her  into  the  drawing-room  immediately.  Her 
pleasure  in  seeing  him  was  like  every  other  of  her 
feelings,  strong  in  itself  and  strongly  spoken. 
She  met  him  with  a  hand  that  would  be  taken,  and 
a  voice  that  expressed  the  aff  ection  of  a  sister. 

“Dear  Edward!”  she  cried,  “this  is  a  moment 
of  great  happiness! — This  would  almost  make 
amends  for  everything!” 

Edward  tried  to  return  her  kindness  as  it  de¬ 
served,  but  before  such  witnesses  he  dared  not 
say  half  what  he  really  felt.  Again  they  all  sat 

r  107] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


down,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  all  were  silent; 
while  Marianne  was  looking  with  the  most  speak¬ 
ing  tenderness,  sometimes  at  Edward  and  some¬ 
times  at  Elinor,  regretting  only  that  their  delight 
in  each  other  should  be  checked  by  Lucy’s  unwel¬ 
come  presence.  Edward  was  the  first  to  speak, 
and  it  was  to  notice  Marianne’s  altered  looks,  and 
express  his  f  ear  of  her  not  finding  London  agree 
with  her. 

“Oh!  don’t  think  of  me!”  she  replied,  with 
spirited  earnestness,  though  her  eyes  were  filled 
with  tears  as  she  spoke,  “don’t  think  of  my 
health.  Elinor  is  well,  you  see.  That  must  be 
enough  for  us  both.” 

This  remark  was  not  calculated  to  make 
Edward  or  Elinor  more  easy,  nor  to  conciliate  the 
good-will  of  Lucy,  who  looked  up  at  Marianne 
with  no  very  benignant  expression. 

“Do  you  like  London?”  said  Edward,  willing 
to  say  anything  that  might  introduce  another 
subject. 

“Not  at  all.  I  expected  much  pleasure  in  it, 
but  I  have  found  none.  The  sight  of  you, 
Edward,  is  the  only  comfort  it  has  afforded;  and, 
thank  Heaven !  you  are  what  you  always  were !” 

She  paused — no  one  spoke. 

“I  think,  Elinor,”  she  presently  added,  “we 
must  employ  Edward  to  take  care  of  us  in  our 
return  to  Barton.  In  a  week  or  two,  I  suppose, 
[108] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

we  shall  be  going;  and,  I  trust,  Edward  will 
not  be  very  unwilling  to  accept  the  charge.” 

Poor  Edward  muttered  something;  but  what 
it  was,  nobody  knew,  not  even  himself.  But 
Marianne,  who  saw  his  agitation,  and  could  easily 
trace  it  to  whatever  cause  best  pleased  herself, 
was  perfectly  satisfied,  and  soon  talked  of  some¬ 
thing  else. 

“We  spent  such  a  day,  Edward,  in  Harley- 
street,  yesterday!  So  dull,  so  wretchedly  dull! 
But  I  have  much  to  say  to  you  on  that  head,  which 
cannot  be  said  now.” 

And  with  this  admirable  discretion  did  she 
defer  the  assurance  of  her  finding  their  mutual 
relatives  more  disagreeable  than  ever,  and  of  her 
being  particularly  disgusted  with  his  mother,  till 
they  were  more  in  private. 

“But  why  were  you  not  there,  Edward? — Why 
did  you  not  come?” 

“I  was  engaged  elsewhere.” 

“Engaged! — But  what  was  that,  when  such 
friends  were  to  be  met?” 

“Perhaps,  Miss  Marianne,”  cried  Lucy,  eager 
to  take  some  revenge  on  her,  “you  think  young 
men  never  stand  upon  engagements,  if  they  have 
no  mind  to  keep  them,  little  as  well  as  great.” 

Elinor  was  very  angry,  but  Marianne  seemed 
entirely  insensible  of  the  sting;  for  she  calmly 
replied, 


[109] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“Not  so,  indeed;  for  seriously  speaking,  I  am 
very  sure  that  conscience  only  kept  Edward  from 
Harley-street.  And  I  really  believe  he  has  the 
most  delicate  conscience  in  the  world;  the  most 
scrupulous  in  performing  every  engagement, 
however  minute,  and  however  it  may  make 
against  his  interest  or  pleasure.  He  is  the  most 
fearful  of  giving  pain,  of  wounding  expectation, 
and  the  most  incapable  of  being  selfish  of  any¬ 
body  I  ever  saw.  Edward,  it  is  so,  and  I  will  say 
it.  What !  are  you  never  to  hear  yourself  praised? 
Then  you  must  be  no  friend  of  mine;  for  those 
who  will  accept  of  my  love  and  esteem,  must  sub¬ 
mit  to  my  open  commendation.” 

The  nature  of  her  commendation  in  the  present 
case,  however,  happened  to  be  particularly  ill- 
suited  to  the  feelings  of  two-thirds  of  her  audi¬ 
tors,  and  was  so  very  unexhilarating  to  Edward, 
that  he  very  soon  got  up  to  go  away. 

“Going  so  soon!”  said  Marianne;  “my  dear 
Edward,  this  must  not  be.” 

And  drawing  him  a  little  aside,  she  whispered 
her  persuasion  that  Lucy  could  not  stay  much 
longer.  But  even  this  encouragement  failed,  for 
he  would  go ;  and  Lucy,  who  would  have  outstaid 
him  had  his  visit  lasted  two  hours,  soon  afterwards 
went  away. 

“What  can  bring  her  here  so  often!”  said  Mari¬ 
anne,  on  her  leaving  them.  “Could  she  not  see 
[110] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

that  we  wanted  her  gone !  How  teazing  to 
Edward!” 

“How  so? — we  were  all  his  friends,  and  Lucy 
has  been  the  longest  known  to  him  of  any.  It  is 
but  natural  that  he  should  like  to  see  her  as  well 
as  ourselves.” 

Marianne  looked  at  her  steadily,  and  said, 
“You  know,  Elinor,  that  this  is  a  kind  of  talking 
which  I  cannot  bear.  If  you  only  hope  to  have 
your  assertion  contradicted,  as  I  must  suppose 
to  be  the  case,  you  ought  to  recollect  that  I  am 
the  last  person  in  the  world  to  do  it.  I  cannot 
descend  to  be  tricked  out  of  assurances  that  are 
not  really  wanted.” 

She  then  left  the  room;  and  Elinor  dared  not 
follow  her  to  say  more,  for  bound  as  she  was  by 
her  promise  of  secrecy  to  Lucy,  she  could  give  no 
information  that  would  convince  Marianne;  and 
painful  as  the  consequences  of  her  still  continu¬ 
ing  in  an  error  might  be,  she  was  obliged  to  sub¬ 
mit  to  it.  All  that  she  could  hope,  was  that 
Edward  would  not  often  expose  her  or  himself 
to  the  distress  of  hearing  Marianne’s  mistaken 
warmth,  nor  to  the  repetition  of  any  other  part 
of  the  pain  that  had  attended  their  recent  meet¬ 
ing — and  this  she  had  every  reason  to  expect. 


[Ill] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

WITHIN  a  few  days  after  this  meeting, 
the  newspapers  announced  to  the 
world,  that  the  lady  of  Thomas 
Palmer,  Esq.,  was  safely  delivered  of  a  son  and 
heir;  a  very  interesting  and  satisfactory  para¬ 
graph,  at  least  to  all  those  intimate  connections 
who  knew  it  before. 

This  event,  highly  important  to  Mrs  Jennings’s 
happiness,  produced  a  temporary  alteration  in 
the  disposal  of  her  time,  and  influenced  in  a  like 
degree  the  engagements  of  her  young  friends; 
for  as  she  wished  to  be  as  much  as  possible  with 
Charlotte,  she  went  thither  every  morning  as  soon 
as  she  was  dressed,  and  did  not  return  till  late  in 
the  evening ;  and  the  Miss  Dashwoods,  at  the  par¬ 
ticular  request  of  the  Middletons,  spent  the  whole 
of  every  day  in  Conduit-street.  For  their  own 
comfort,  they  would  much  rather  have  remained, 
at  least  all  the  morning,  in  Mrs  Jennings’s  house; 
but  it  was  not  a  thing  to  be  urged  against  the 
wishes  of  everybody.  Their  hours  were  therefore 
made  over  to  Lady  Middleton  and  the  two  Miss 
Steeles,  by,  whom  their  company  was  in  fact  as 
little  valued  as  it  was  professedly  sought. 

They  had  too  much  sense  to  be  desirable  com¬ 
panions  to  the  former;  and  by  the  latter  they  were 
[112] 

i;  •  ,,  '«HnH 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


considered  with  a  jealous  eye,  as  intruding  on 
their  ground,  and  sharing  the  kindness  which  they 
wanted  to  monopolize.  Though  nothing  could  be 
more  polite  than  Lady  Middleton’s  behaviour  to 
Elinor  and  Marianne,  she  did  not  really  like  them 
at  all.  Because  they  neither  flattered  herself  nor 
her  children,  she  could  not  believe  them  good- 
natured;  and  because  they  were  fond  of  reading, 
she  fancied  them  satirical:  perhaps  without  ex¬ 
actly  knowing  what  it  was  to  be  satirical ;  but  that 
did  not  signify.  It  was  censure  in  common  use, 
and  easily  given. 

Their  presence  was  a  restraint  both  on  her  and 
on  Lucy.  It  checked  the  idleness  of  one,  and  the 
business  of  the  other.  Lady  Middleton  was 
ashamed  of  doing  nothing  before  them,  and  the 
flattery  which  Lucy  was  proud  to  think  of  and 
administer  at  other  times,  she  feared  they  would 
despise  her  for  offering.  Miss  Steele  was  the 
least  discomposed  of  the  three  by  their  presence ; 
and  it  was  in  their  power  to  reconcile  her  to  it 
entirely.  Would  either  of  them  only  have  given 
her  a  full  and  minute  account  of  the  whole  affair 
between  Marianne  and  Mr  Willoughby,  she 
would  have  thought  herself  amply  rewarded  for 
the  sacrifice  of  the  best  place  by  the  fire  after 
dinner,  which  their  arrival  occasioned.  But  this 
conciliation  was  not  granted;  for  though  she 
often  threw  out  expressions  of  pity  for  her  sis- 

[113] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


ter  to  Elinor,  and  more  than  once  dropt  a  reflec¬ 
tion  on  the  inconstancy  of  beaux  before  Mari¬ 
anne,  no  eff ect  was  produced,  but  a  look  of  indif¬ 
ference  from  the  former  or  of  disgust  in  the 
latter.  An  effort  even  yet  lighter  might  have 
made  her  their  friend.  Would  they  only  have 
laughed  at  her  about  the  Doctor!  But  so  little 
were  they,  any  more  than  the  others,  inclined  to 
oblige  her,  that  if  Sir  John  dined  from  home,  she 
might  spend  a  whole  day  without  hearing  any 
other  raillery  on  the  subject  than  what  she  was 
kind  enough  to  bestow  on  herself. 

All  these  jealousies  and  discontents,  however, 
were  so  totally  unsuspected  by  Mrs  Jennings, 
that  she  thought  it  a  delightful  thing  for  the  girls 
to  be  together;  and  generally  congratulated  her 
young  friends  every  night,  on  having  escaped  the 
company  of  a  stupid  old  woman  so  long.  She 
joined  them  sometimes  at  Sir  John’s,  and  some¬ 
times  at  her  own  house ;  but  wherever  it  was,  she 
always  came  in  excellent  spirits,  full  of  delight 
and  importance,  attributing  Charlotte’s  well¬ 
doing  to  her  own  care,  and  ready  to  give  so  exact, 
so  minute  a  detail  of  her  situation,  as  only  Miss 
Steele  had  curiosity  enough  to  desire.  One  thing 
did  disturb  her;  and  of  that  she  made  her  daily 
complaint.  Mr  Palmer  maintained  the  common, 
but  unfatherly  opinion  among  his  sex,  of  all 
infants  being  alike;  and  though  she  could  plainly 
[114] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


perceive  at  different  times  the  most  striking  re¬ 
semblance  between  this  baby  and  every  one  of  his 
relations  on  both  sides,  there  was  no  convincing 
his  father  of  it;  no  persuading  him  to  believe 
that  it  was  not  exactly  like  every  other  baby  of 
the  same  age;  nor  could  he  even  be  brought  to 
acknowledge  the  simple  proposition  of  its  being 
the  finest  child  in  the  world. 

I  come  now  to  the  relation  of  a  misfortune 
which  about  this  time  befell  Mrs  John  Dash  wood. 
It  so  happened  that  while  her  two  sisters  with 
Mrs  Jennings  were  first  calling  on  her  in  Harley- 
street,  another  of  her  acquaintance  had  dropt  in 
— a  circumstance  in  itself  not  apparently  likely 
to  produce  evil  to  her.  But  while  the  imagina¬ 
tions  of  other  people  will  carry  them  away  to 
form  wrong  judgments  of  our  conduct,  and  to 
decide  on  it  by  slight  appearances,  one’s  happi¬ 
ness  must  in  some  measure  be  always  at  the  mercy 
of  chance.  In  the  present  instance,  this  last- 
arrived  lady  allowed  her  fancy  so  far  to  outrun 
truth  and  probability,  that  on  merely  hearing  the 
name  of  the  Miss  Dashwoods  and  understanding 
them  to  be  Mr  Dash  wood’s  sisters,  she  immedi¬ 
ately  concluded  them  to  be  staying  in  Harley- 
street.;  and  this  misconstruction  produced  within 
a  day  or  two  afterwards  cards  of  invitation  for 
them,  as  well  as  for  their  brother  and  sister,  to  a 
small  musical  narty  at  her  house.  The  conse- 

[115] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


quence  of  which  was,  that  Mrs  John  Dash  wood 
was  obliged  to  submit  not  only  to  the  exceedingly 
great  inconvenience  of  sending  her  carriage  for 
the  Miss  Dashwoods,  but,  what  was  still  worse, 
must  be  subject  to  all  the  unpleasantness  of  ap¬ 
pearing  to  treat  them  with  attention:  and  who 
could  tell  that  they  might  not  expect  to  go  out 
with  her  a  second  time?  The  power  of  disap¬ 
pointing  them,  it  was  true,  must  always  be  hers. 
But  that  was  not  enough;  for  when  people  are 
determined  on  a  mode  of  conduct  which  they 
know  to  be  wrong,  they  feel  injured  by  the 
expectation  of  anything  better  from  them. 

Marianne  had  now  been  brought  by  degrees  so 
much  into  the  habit  of  going  out  every  day,  that 
it  was  become  a  matter  of  indifference  to  her 
whether  she  went  or  not :  and  she  prepared  quietly 
and  mechanically  for  every  evening’s  engage¬ 
ment,  though  without  expecting  the  smallest 
amusement  from  any,  and  very  often  without 
knowing  till  the  last  moment  where  it  was  to  take 
her. 

To  her  dress  and  appearance  she  was  grown  so 
perfectly  indifferent,  as  not  to  bestow  half  the 
consideration  on  it,  during  the  whole  of  her 
toilette,  which  it  received  from  Miss  Steele  in  the 
first  five  minutes  of  their  being  together,  when  it 
was  finished.  Nothing  escaped  her  minute  obser¬ 
vation  and  general  curiosity ;  she  saw  everything, 
[116] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY* 


and  asked  everything;  was  never  easy  till  she 
knew  the  price  of  every  part  of  Marianne’s  dress ; 
could  have  guessed  the  number  of  her  gowns 
altogether  with  better  judgment  than  Marianne 
herself,  and  was  not  without  hopes  of  finding  out 
before  they  parted,  how  much  her  washing  cost 
per  week,  and  how  much  she  had  every  year  to 
spend  upon  herself.  The  impertinence  of  these 
kind  of  scrutinies,  moreover,  was  generally  con¬ 
cluded  with  a  compliment,  which  though  meant  as 
its  douceur,  was  considered  by  Marianne  as  the 
greatest  impertinence  of  all;  for  after  undergo¬ 
ing  an  examination  into  the  value  and  make  of 
her  gown,  the  colour  of  her  shoes,  and  the  ar¬ 
rangement  of  her  hair,  she  was  almost  sure  of 
being  told  that  upon  “her  word  she  looked  vastly 
smart,  and  she  dared  to  say  would  make  a  great 
many  conquests.” 

With  such  encouragement  as  this,  was  she  dis¬ 
missed  on  the  present  occasion  to  her  brother’s 
carriage ;  which  they  were  ready  to  enter  five  min¬ 
utes  after  it  stopped  at  the  door,  a  punctuality  not 
very  agreeable  to  their  sister-in-law,  who  had  pre¬ 
ceded  them  to  the  house  of  her  acquaintance,  and 
was  there  hoping  for  some  delay  on  their  part  that 
might  inconvenience  either  herself  or  her  coach¬ 
man. 

The  events  of  the  evening  were  not  very  re¬ 
markable.  The  party,  like  other  musical  par- 

til?] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


ties,  comprehended  a  great  many  people  who  had 
real  taste  for  the  performance,  and  a  great  many 
more  who  had  none  at  all;  and  the  performers 
themselves  were,  as  usual,  in  their  own  estimation, 
and  that  of  their  immediate  friends,  the  first  pri¬ 
vate  performers  in  England. 

As  Elinor  was  neither  musical,  nor  aff  ecting  to 
be  so,  she  made  no  scruple  of  turning  away  her 
eyes  from  the  grand  pianoforte,  whenever  it 
suited  her,  and  unrestrained  even  by  the  presence 
of  a  harp,  and  a  violoncello,  would  fix  them  at 
pleasure  on  any  other  object  in  the  room.  In  one 
of  these  excursive  glances  she  perceived  among 
the  group  of  young  men,  the  very  he  who  had 
given  them  a  lecture  on  toothpick-cases  at  Gray’s. 
She  perceived  him  soon  afterwards  looking  at 
herself,  and  speaking  familiarly  to  her  brother; 
and  had  just  determined  to  find  out  his  name 
from  the  latter,  when  they  both  came  towards 
her,  and  Mr  Dashwood  introduced  him  to  her  as 
Mr  Robert  Ferrars. 

He  addressed  her  with  easy  civility,  and  twisted 
his  head  into  a  bow  which  assured  her  as  plainly 
as  words  could  have  done,  that  he  was  exactly  the 
coxcomb  she  had  heard  him  described  to  be  by 
Lucy.  Happy  had  it  been  for  her  if  her  regard 
for  Edward  had  depended  less  on  his  own  merit, 
than  on  the  merit  of  his  nearest  relations.  For 
then  his  brother’s  bow  must  have  given  the  finish- 
[118] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

in g  stroke  to  what  the  ill-humour  of  his  mother 
and  sister  would  have  begun.  But  while  she  won¬ 
dered  at  the  difference  of  the  two  young  men, 
she  did  not  find  that  the  emptiness  and  conceit  of 
the  one  put  her  at  all  out  of  charity  with  the  mod¬ 
esty  and  worth  of  the  other.  Why  they  were  dif¬ 
ferent,  Robert  explained  to  her  himself  in  the 
course  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour’s  conversation;  for, 
talking  of  his  brother,  and  lamenting  the  extreme 
gaucherie  which  he  really  believed  kept  him  from 
mixing  in  proper  society,  he  candidly  and  gener¬ 
ously  attributed  it  much  less  to  any  natural  de¬ 
ficiency,  than  to  the  misfortune  of  a  private  edu¬ 
cation;  while  he  himself,  though  probably  with¬ 
out  any  particular,  any  material  superiority  by 
nature,  merely  from  the  advantage  of  a  public 
school,  was  as  well  fitted  to  mix  in  the  world  as 
any  other  man. 

“Upon  my  soul,”  he  added,  “I  believe  it  is  noth¬ 
ing  more:  and  so  I  often  tell  my  mother,  when 
she  is  grieving  about  it.  ‘My  dear  madam/  I 
always  say  to  her,  ‘you  must  make  yourself  easy. 
The  evil  is  now  irremediable,  and  it  has  been 
entirely  your  own  doing.  Why  would  you  be  per¬ 
suaded  by  my  uncle,  Sir  Robert,  against  your  own 
judgment,  to  place  Edward  under  private 
tuition,  at  the  most  critical  time  of  his  life?  If 
you  had  only  sent  him  to  Westminster  as  well  as 
myself,  instead  of  sending  him  to  Mr  Pratt’s,  all 

[119] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

this  would  have  been  prevented.’  This  is  the  way 
in  which  I  always  consider  the  matter,  and  my 
mother  is  perfectly  convinced  of  her  error.” 

Elinor  would  not  oppose  his  opinion,  because 
whatever  might  be  her  general  estimation  of  the 
advantage  of  a  public  school,  she  could  not  think 
of  Edward’s  abode  in  Mr  Pratt’s  family  with  any 
satisfaction. 

“You  reside  in  Devonshire,  I  think,”  was  his 
next  observation,  “in  a  cottage  near  Dawlish.” 

Elinor  set  him  right  as  to  its  situation,  and  it 
seemed  rather  surprising  to  him  that  anybody 
could  live  in  Devonshire  without  living  near  Daw¬ 
lish.  He  bestowed  his  hearty  approbation,  how¬ 
ever,  on  their  species  of  house. 

“For  my  own  part,”  said  he,  “I  am  excessively 
fond  of  a  cottage;  there  is  always  so  much  com¬ 
fort,  so  much  elegance  about  them.  And  I  pro¬ 
test,  if  I  had  any  money  to  spare,  I  should  buy  a 
little  land  and  build  one  myself,  within  a  short 
distance  of  London,  where  I  might  drive  myself 
down  at  any  time,  and  collect  a  few  friends  about 
me  and  be  happy.  I  advise  everybody  who  is 
going  to  build,  to  build  a  cottage.  My  friend 
Lord  Courtland  came  to  me  the  other  day  on  pur¬ 
pose  to  ask  my  advice,  and  laid  before  me  three 
different  plans  of  Bonomi’s.  I  was  to  decide  on 
the  best  of  them.  'My  dear  Courtland,’  said  I, 
immediately  throwing  them  all  into  the  fire,  'do 
[120] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

not  adopt  either  of  them,  but  by  all  means  build  a 
cottage.’  And  that  I  fancy,  will  be  the  end  of  it.” 

“Some  people  imagine  that  there  can  be  no 
accommodations,  no  space  in  a  cottage;  but  this 
is  all  a  mistake.  It  was  last  month  at  my  friend 
Elliott’s  near  Dartford.  Lady  Elliott  wished  to 
give  a  dance.  ‘But  how  can  it  be  done?’  said  she; 
‘my  dear  Ferrars,  do  tell  me  how  it  is  to  be  man¬ 
aged.  There  is  not  a  room  in  this  cottage  that 
will  hold  ten  couple,  and  where  can  the  supper 
be?’  I  immediately  saw  that  there  could  be  no 
difficulty  in  it,  so  I  said,  ‘My  dear  Lady  Elliott, 
do  not  be  uneasy.  The  dining  parlour  will  admit 
eighteen  couple  with  ease;  card-tables  may  be 
placed  in  the  drawing-room;  the  library  may  be 
open  for  tea  and  other  refreshments;  and  let  the 
supper  be  set  out  in  the  saloon.’  Lady  Elliott 
was  delighted  with  the  thought.  We  measured 
the  dining-room,  and  found  it  would  hold  exactly 
eighteen  couple,  and  the  aff air  was  arranged  pre¬ 
cisely  after  my  plan.  So  that  in  fact,  you  see, 
if  people  do  but  know  how  to  set  about  it,  every 
comfort  may  be  as  well  enjoyed  in  a  cottage  as 
in  the  most  spacious  dwelling.” 

Elinor  agreed  to  it  all,  for  she  did  not  think  he 
deserved  the  compliment  of  rational  opposition. 

As  John  Dash  wood  had  no  more  pleasure  in 
music  than  his  eldest  sister,  his  mind  was  equally 
at  liberty  to  fix  on  anything  else ;  and  a  thought 

[121] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


struck  him  during  the  evening,  which  he  com¬ 
municated  to  his  wife,  for  her  approbation  when 
they  got  home.  The  consideration  of  Mrs  Den¬ 
nison’s  mistake,  in  supposing  his  sisters  their 
guests,  had  suggested  the  propriety  of  their  being 
really  invited  to  become  such,  while  Mrs  Jen¬ 
nings’s  engagements  kept  her  from  home.  The 
expense  would  be  nothing,  the  inconvenience  not 
more;  and  it  was  altogether  an  attention  which 
the  delicacy  of  his  conscience  pointed  out  to  be 
requisite  to  its  complete  enfranchisement  from 
his  promise  to  his  father.  Fanny  was  startled  at 
the  proposal. 

“I  do  not  see  how  it  can  be  done,”  said  she, 
“without  affronting  Lady  Middleton,  for  they 
spend  everyday  with  her;  otherwise  I  should  be 
exceedingly  glad  to  do  it.  You  know  I  am  always 
ready  to  pay  them  any  attention  in  my  power,  as 
my  taking  them  out  this  evening  shews.  But 
they  are  Lady  Middleton’s  visitors.  How  can  I 
ask  them  away  from  her?” 

Her  husband,  but  with  great  humility,  did  not 
see  the  force  of  her  objection.  “They  had  already 
spent  a  week  in  this  manner  in  Conduit-street, 
and  Lady  Middleton  could  not  be  displeased  at 
their  giving  the  same  number  of  days  to  such  near 
relations.” 

Fanny  paused  a  moment,  and  then,  with  fresh 
vigour,  said — 

[122] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“My  love,  I  would  ask  them  with  all  my  heart, 
if  it  was  in  my  power.  But  I  had  just  settled 
within  myself  to  ask  the  Miss  Steeles  to  spend  a 
few  days  with  us.  They  are  very  well-behaved, 
good  kind  of  girls;  and  I  think  the  attention  is 
due  to  them,  as  their  uncle  did  so  very  well  by 
Edward.  We  can  ask  your  sisters  some  other 
year,  you  know;  but  the  Miss  Steeles  may  not  be 
in  town  any  more.  I  am  sure  you  will  like  them ; 
indeed,  you  do  like  them,  you  know,  very  much 
already,  and  so  does  my  mother;  and  they  are 
such  favourites  with  Harry!” 

Mr  Dashwood  was  convinced.  He  saw  the 
necessity  of  inviting  the  Miss  Steeles  immedi¬ 
ately,  and  his  conscience  was  pacified  by  the  reso¬ 
lution  of  inviting  his  sisters  another  year;  at  the 
same  time,  however,  slyly  suspecting  that  another 
year  would  make  the  invitation  needless  by  bring¬ 
ing  Elinor  to  town  as  Colonel  Brandon’s  wife, 
and  Marianne  as  their  visitor. 

Fanny,  rejoicing  in  her  escape,  and  proud  of 
the  ready  wit  that  had  procured  it,  wrote  the  next 
morning  to  Lucy,  to  request  her  company  and  her 
sister’s  for  some  days  in  Harley-street,  as  soon 
as  Lady  Middleton  could  spare  them.  This  was 
enough  to  make  Lucy  really  and  reasonably 
happy.  Mrs  Dashwood  seemed  actually  working 
for  her  herself,  cherishing  all  her  hopes,  and  pro¬ 
moting  all  her  views!  Such  an  opportunity  of 

[123] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


being  with  Edward  and  his  family  was,  above  all 
things,  the  most  material  to  her  interest,  and  such 
an  invitation  the  most  gratifying  to  her  feelings! 
It  was  an  advantage  that  could  not  be  too  grate¬ 
fully  acknowledged,  nor  too  speedily  made  use 
of ;  and  the  visit  to  Lady  Middleton,  which  had 
not  before  had  any  precise  limits,  was  instantly 
discovered  to  have  been  always  meant  to  end  in 
two  days’  time. 

When  the  note  was  shewn  to  Elinor,  as  it  was 
within  ten  minutes  after  its  arrival,  it  gave  her, 
for  the  first  time,  some  share  in  the  expectations 
of  Lucy;  for  such  a  mark  of  uncommon  kindness, 
vouchsafed  on  so  short  an  acquaintance,  seemed 
to  declare  that  the  good-will  towards  her  arose 
from  something  more  than  merely  malice  against 
herself,  and  might  be  brought,  by  time  and  ad¬ 
dress,  to  do  everything  that  Lucy  wished.  Her 
flattery  had  already  subdued  the  pride  of  Lady 
Middleton,  and  made  an  entry  into  the  close  heart 
of  Mrs  John  Dash  wood;  and  these  were  effects 
that  laid  open  the  probability  of  greater. 

The  Miss  Steeles  removed  to  Harley-street, 
and  all  that  reached  Elinor  of  their  influence 
there,  strengthened  her  expectation  of  the  event. 
Sir  John,  who  called  on  them  more  than  once, 
brought  home  such  accounts  of  the  favour  they 
were  in  as  must  be  universally  striking.  Mrs 
Dashwood  had  never  been  so  much  pleased  with 
[124] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


any  young  women  in  her  life  as  she  was  with 
them;  had  given  each  of  them  a  needle-book, 
made  by  some  emigrant;  called  Lucy  by  her 
Christian  name;  and  did  not  know  whether  she 
should  ever  be  able  to  part  with  them. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 


MRS  PALMER  was  so  well  at  the  end  of 
a  fortnight,  that  her  mother  felt  it  no 
longer  necessary  to  give  up  the  whole  of 
her  time  to  her ;  and  contenting  herself  with  vis¬ 
iting  her  once  or  twice  a  day,  returned  from  that 
period  to  her  own  home,  and  her  own  habits,  in 
which  she  found  the  Miss  Dashwoods  very  ready 
to  reassume  their  former  share. 

About  the  third  or  fourth  morning  after  their 
being  thus  re-settled  in  Berkeley-street,  Mrs  Jen¬ 
nings,  on  returning  from  her  ordinary  visit  to 
Mrs  Palmer,  entered  the  drawing-room,  where 
Elinor  was  sitting  by  herself,  with  an  air  of  such 
hurrying  importance  as  prepared  her  to  hear 
something  wonderful;  and  giving  her  time  only 
to  form  that  idea,  began  directly  to  justify  it  by 
saying, 

“Lord!  my  dear  Miss  Dashwood!  have  you 
heard  the  news?” 

[125] 


“>•*4 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“No,  ma’am.  What  is  it?” 

“Something  so  strange!  But  you  shall  hear  it 
all.  When  I  got  to  Mr  Palmer’s,  I  found  Char¬ 
lotte  quite  in  a  fuss  about  the  child.  She  was  sure 
it  was  very  ill — it  cried,  and  fretted,  and  was  all 
over  pimples.  So  I  looked  at  it  directly,  and 
‘Lord!  my  dear,’  says  I,  ‘it  is  nothing  in  the  world 
but  the  red-gum;’  and  nurse  said  just  the  same. 
But  Charlotte,  she  would  not  be  satisfied,  so  Mr 
Donavan  was  sent  for;  and  luckily  he  happened 
to  be  just  come  in  from  Harley-street,  so  he 
stepped  over  directly,  and  as  soon  as  ever  he  saw 
the  child,  he  said,  just  as  we  did,  that  it  was  noth¬ 
ing  in  the  world  but  the  red-gum,  and  then  Char¬ 
lotte  was  easy.  And  so,  just  as  he  was  going 
away  again,  it  came  into  my  head,  I  am  sure  I  do 
not  know  how  I  happened  to  think  of  it,  but  it 
came  into  my  head  to  ask  him  if  there  was  any 
news.  So  upon  that,  he  smirked,  and  simpered, 
and  looked  grave,  and  seemed  to  know  something 
or  other,  and  at  last  he  said  in  a  whisper,  Tor  fear 
any  unpleasant  report  should  reach  the  young 
ladies  under  your  care  as  to  their  sister’s  indispo¬ 
sition,  I  think  it  advisable  to  say,  that  I  believe 
there  is  no  great  reason  for  alarm;  I  hope  Mrs 
Dashwood  will  do  very  well.’  ” 

“What!  is  Fanny  ill?” 

“That  is  exactly  what  I  said,  my  dear.  ‘Lord!’ 
says  I,  ‘is  Mrs  Dashwood  ill?’  So  then  it  all  came 
[126] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


out ;  and  the  long  and  the  short  of  the  matter,  by 
all  I  can  learn,  seems  [to]  be  this : — Mr  Edward 
Ferrars,  the  very  young  man  I  used  to  joke  with 
you  about  (but  however,  as  it  turns  out,  I  am 
monstrous  glad  there  never  was  anything  in  it), 
Mr  Edward  Ferrars,  it  seems,  has  been  engaged 
above  this  twelvemonth  to  my  cousin  Lucy! — 
There’s  for  you,  my  dear! — And  not  a  creature 
knowing  a  syllable  of  the  matter  except  Nancy! 
— Could  you  have  believed  such  a  thing  possible? 
— There  is  no  great  wonder  in  their  liking  one 
another;  but  that  matters  should  be  brought  so 
forward  between  them,  and  nobody  suspect  it! 
That  is  strange! — I  never  happened  to  see  them 
together,  or  I  am  sure  I  should  have  found  it  out 
directly.  Well,  and  so  this  was  kept  a  great 
secret,  for  fear  of  Mrs  Ferrars;  and  neither  she 
nor  your  brother  or  sister  suspected  a  word  of  the 
matter, — till  this  very  morning,  poor  Nancy,  who, 
you  know,  is  a  well-meaning  creature,  but  no 
conjurer,  popt  it  all  out.  ‘Lord!’  thinks  she  to 
herself,  ‘they  are  all  so  fond  of  Lucy,  to  be  sure 
they  will  make  no  difficulty  about  it;’  and  so, 
away  she  went  to  your  sister,  who  was  sitting  all 
alone  at  her  carpet-work,  little  suspecting  what 
was  to  come — for  she  had  just  been  saying  to 
your  brother,  only  five  minutes  before,  that  she 
thought  to  make  a  match  between  Edward  and 
some  lord’s  daughter  or  other,  I  forget  who.  So 

[127] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


you  may  think  what  a  blow  it  was  to  all  her  vanity 
and  pride.  She  fell  into  violent  hysterics  imme¬ 
diately,  with  such  screams  as  reached  your 
brother’s  ears,  as  he  was  sitting  in  his  own  dress¬ 
ing-room  downstairs,  thinking  about  writing  a 
letter  to  his  steward  in  the  country.  So  up  he 
flew  directly,  and  a  terrible  scene  took  place,  for 
Lucy  was  come  to  them  by  that  time,  little  dream¬ 
ing  what  was  going  on.  Poor  soul!  I  pity  her. 
And  I  must  say,  I  think  she  was  used  very  hardly ; 
for  your  sister  scolded  like  any  fury,  and  soon 
drove  her  into  a  fainting  fit.  Nancy,  she  fell 
upon  her  knees,  and  cried  bitterly;  and  your 

brother,  he  walked  about  the  room,  and  said  he 

✓ 

did  not  know  what  to  do.  Mrs  Dashwood  de¬ 
clared  they  should  not  stay  a  minute  longer  in  the 
house,  and  your  brother  was  forced  to  go  down 
upon  his  knees  too,  to  persuade  her  to  let  them 
stay  till  they  had  packed  up  their  clothes.  Then 
she  fell  into  hysterics  again,  and  he  was  so  fright¬ 
ened  that  he  would  send  for  Mr  Donavan,  and 
Mr  Donavan  found  the  house  in  all  this  uproar. 
The  carriage  was  at  the  door  ready  to  take  my 
poor  cousins  away,  and  they  were  just  stepping 
in  as  he  came  off* ;  poor  Lucy  in  such  a  condition, 
he  says,  she  could  hardly  walk;  and  Nancy,  she 
was  almost  as  bad.  I  declare,  I  have  no  patience 
with  your  sister;  and  I  hope,  with  all  my  heart, 
it  will  be  a  match  in  spite  of  her.  Lord!  what  a 
[128] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


taking  poor  Mr  Edward  will  be  in  when  he  hears 
of  it!  To  have  his  love  used  so  scornfully!  for 
they  say  he  is  monstrous  fond  of  her,  as  well  he 
may.  I  should  not  wonder,  if  he  was  to  be  in  the 
greatest  of  a  passion!  and  Mr  Donavan  thinks 
just  the  same.  He  and  I  had  a  great  deal  of  talk 
about  it;  and  the  best  of  all  is,  that  he  is  gone 
back  again  to  Harley-street,  that  he  may  be 
within  call  when  Mrs  Ferrars  is  told  of  it,  for  she 
was  sent  for  as  soon  as  ever  my  cousins  left  the 
house,  for  your  sister  was  sure  she  would  be  in 
hysterics  too;  and  so  she  may,  for  what  I  care. 
I  have  no  pity  for  either  of  them.  I  have  no 
notion  of  people’s  making  such  a  to-do  about 
money  and  greatness.  There  is  no  reason  on 
earth  why  Mr  Edward  and  Lucy  should  not 
marry;  for  I  am  sure  Mrs  Ferrars  may  afford  to 
do  very  well  by  her  son;  and  though  Lucy  has 
next  to  nothing  herself,  she  knows  better  than 
anybody  how  to  make  the  most  of  everything; 
and  I  dare  say,  if  Mrs  Ferrars  would  only  allow 
him  five  hundred  a-year,  she  would  make  as  good 
an  appearance  with  it  as  anybody  else  would  with 
eight.  Lord!  how  snug  they  might  live  in  such 
another  cottage  as  yours — or  a  little  bigger — 
with  two  maids  and  two  men;  and  I  believe  I 
could  help  them  to  a  housemaid,  for  my  Betty 
has  a  sister  out  of  place,  that  would  fit  them 
exactly.” 


[129] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Here  Mrs  Jennings  ceased,  and  as  Elinor  had 
had  time  enough  to  collect  her  thoughts,  she  was 
able  to  give  such  an  answer,  and  make  such  ob¬ 
servations,  as  the  subject  might  naturally  be  sup¬ 
posed  to  produce. — Happy  to  find  that  she  was 
not  suspected  of  any  extraordinary  interest  in 
it;  that  Mrs  Jennings  (as  she  had  of  late  often 
hoped  might  be  the  case)  had  ceased  to  imagine 
her  at  all  attached  to  Edward;  and  happy  above 
all  the  rest,  in  the  absence  of  Marianne,  she  felt 
very  well  able  to  speak  of  the  affair  without  em¬ 
barrassment,  and  to  give  her  judgment,  as  she 
believed,  with  impartiality  on  the  conduct  of 
every  one  concerned  in  it. 

She  could  hardly  determine  what  her  own  ex¬ 
pectation  of  its  event  really  was; — though  she 
earnestly  tried  to  drive  away  the  notion  of  its 
being  possible  to  end  otherwise  at  last,  than  in  the 
marriage  of  Edward  and  Lucy.  What  Mrs  Fer- 
rars  wx>uld  say  and  do,  though  there  could  not  be 
a  doubt  of  its  nature,  she  was  anxious  to  hear ;  and 
still  more  anxious  to  know  how  Edward  would 
conduct  himself. — For  him  she  felt  much  com¬ 
passion; — for  Lucy  very  little — and  it  cost  her 
some  pains  to  procure  that  little; — for  the  rest  of 
the  party  none  at  all. 

As  Mrs  Jennings  could  talk  on  no  other  sub¬ 
ject,  Elinor  soon  saw  the  necessity  of  preparing 
Marianne  for  its  discussion. — No  time  was  to  be 
11301 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


lost  in  undeceiving  her,  in  making  her  acquainted 
with  the  real  truth,  and  in  endeavouring  to  bring 
her  to  hear  it  talked  of  by  others,  without  betray¬ 
ing  that  she  felt  any  uneasiness  for  her  sister,  or 
any  resentment  against  Edward. 

Elinor’s  office  was  a  painful  one. — She  was 
going  to  remove  what  she  really  believed  to  be  her 
sister’s  chief  consolation, — to  give  such  particu¬ 
lars  of  Edward,  as  she  feared  would  ruin  him  for 
ever  in  her  good  opinion, — and  to  make  Mari¬ 
anne,  by  a  resemblance  in  their  situations,  which 
to  her  fancy  would  seem  strong,  feel  all  her  own 
disappointment  over  again.  But  unwelcome  as 
such  a  task  must  be,  it  was  necessary  to  be  done, 
and  Elinor  therefore  hastened  to  perform  it. 

She  was  very  far  from  wishing  to  dwell  on  her 
own  feelings,  or  to  represent  herself  as  suffering 
much,  any  otherwise  than  as  the  self-command 
she  had  practised  since  her  first  knowledge  of 
Edward’s  engagement,  might  suggest  a  hint  of 
what  was  practicable  to  Marianne.  Her  narra¬ 
tion  was  clear  and  simple;  and  though,  it  could 
not  be  given  without  emotion,  it  was  not  accom¬ 
panied  by  violent  agitation,  nor  impetuous  grief. 
— That  belonged  rather  to  the  hearer,  for  Mari¬ 
anne  listened  with  horror,  and  cried  excessively. 
Elinor  was  to  be  the  comforter  of  others  in  her 
own  distresses,  no  less  than  in  theirs;  and  all  the 
comfort  that  could  be  given  by  assurances  of  her 

[131] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


own  composure  of  mind,  and  a  very  earnest  vin¬ 
dication  of  Edward  from  every  charge  but  of 
imprudence,  was  readily  off  ered. 

But  Marianne  for  some  time  would  give  credit 
to  neither.  Edward  seemed  a  second  Wil¬ 
loughby;  and  acknowledging  as  Elinor  did,  that 
she  had  loved  him  most  sincerely,  could  she  feel 
less  than  herself!  As  for  Lucy  Steele,  she  con¬ 
sidered  her  so  totally  unamiable,  so  absolutely 
incapable  of  attaching  a  sensible  man,  that  she 
could  not  be  persuaded  at  first  to  believe,  and 
afterwards  to  pardon,  any  former  affection  of 
Edward  for  her.  She  would  not  even  admit  it  to 
have  been  natural;  and  Elinor  left  her  to  be  con¬ 
vinced  that  it  was  so,  by  that  which  only  could 
convince  her,  a  better  knowledge  of  mankind. 

Her  first  communication  had  reached  no 
farther  than  to  state  the  fact  of  the  engagement, 
and  the  length  of  time  it  had  existed.  Marianne’s 
feelings  had  then  broken  in,  and  put  an  end  to 
all  regularity  of  detail;  and  for  some  time  all  that 
could  be  done  was  to  sooth  her  distress,  lessen  her 
alarms,  and  combat  her  resentment.  The  first 
question  on  her  side,  which  led  to  farther  particu¬ 
lars,  was — 

“How  long  has  this  been  known  to  you,  Elinor? 
Has  he  written  to  you?” 

“I  have  known  it  these  four  months.  When 
Lucy  first  came  to  Barton-park  last  November, 
she  told  me  in  confidence  of  her  engagement.” 

[132] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY, 

At  these  words,  Marianne’s  eyes  expressed  the 
astonishment  which  her  lips  could  not  utter. 
After  a  pause  of  wonder,  she  exclaimed — 

“Four  months! — Have  you  known  of  this  four 
months?” — 

Elinor  confirmed  it. 

“What! — while  attending  me  in  all  my  misery, 
has  this  been  on  your  heart?  and  I  have  re¬ 
proached  you  for  being  happy!” — 

“It  was  not  fit  that  you  should  then  know  how 
much  I  was  the  reverse.” — 

“Four  months!”  cried  Marianne  again.  “So 
calm!  so  cheerful!  How  have  you  been  sup¬ 
ported?” 

“By  feeling  that  I  was  doing  my  duty.  My 
promise  to  Lucy,  obliged  me  to  be  secret.  I  owed 
it  to  her,  therefore,  to  avoid  giving  any  hint  of 
the  truth;  and  I  owed  it  to  my  family  and  friends 
not  to  create  in  them  a  solicitude  about  me,  which 
it  could  not  be  in  my  power  to  satisfy.” 

Marianne  seemed  much  struck. 

“I  have  very  often  wished  to  undeceive  your¬ 
self  and  my  mother,”  added  Elinor;  “and  once  or 
twice  I  have  attempted  it; — but  without  betray¬ 
ing  my  trust,  I  never  could  have  convinced  you.” 

“Four  months! — and  yet  you  loved  him!” 

“Yes.  But  I  did  not  love  only  him ; — and  while 
the  comfort  of  others  was  dear  to  me,  I  was  glad 
to  spare  them  from  knowing  how  much  I  felt. 

[133] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Now,  I  can  think  and  speak  of  it  with  little  emo¬ 
tion.  I  would  not  have  you  suff  er  on  my  account ; 
for  I  assure  you  I  no  longer  suffer  materially 
myself.  I  have  many  things  to  support  me.  I 
am  not  conscious  of  having  provoked  the  disap¬ 
pointment  by  any  imprudence  of  my  own,  and  I 
have  borne  it  as  much  as  possible  without  spread¬ 
ing  it  farther.  I  acquit  Edward  of  all  essential 
misconduct.  I  wish  him  very  happy;  and  I  am 
so  sure  of  his  always  doing  his  duty,  that  though 
now  he  may  harbour  some  regret,  in  the  end  he 
must  become  so.  Lucy  does  not  want  sense,  and 
that  is  the  foundation  on  which  everything  good 
may  be  built.  And  after  all,  Marianne,  after  all 
that  is  bewitching  in  the  idea  of  a  single  and  con¬ 
stant  attachment,  and  all  that  can  be  said  of  one’s 
happiness  depending  entirely  on  any  particular 
person,  it  is  not  meant — it  is  not  fit — it  is  not  pos¬ 
sible  that  it  should  be  so.  Edward  will  marry 
Lucy ;  he  will  marry  a  woman  superior  in  person 
and  understanding  to  half  her  sex ;  and  time  and 
habit  will  teach  him  to  forget  that  he  ever  thought 
another  superior  to  her” 

“If  such  is  your  way  of  thinking,”  said  Mari¬ 
anne,  “if  the  loss  of  what  is  most  valued  is  so 
easily  to  be  made  up  by  something  else,  your  reso¬ 
lution,  your  self-command,  are  perhaps  a  little 
less  to  be  wondered  at.  They  are  brought  more 
within  my  comprehension.” 

[134] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“I  understand  you.  You  do  not  suppose  that 
I  have  ever  felt  much.  For  four  months,  Mari¬ 
anne,  I  have  had  all  this  hanging  on  my  mind, 
without  being  at  liberty  to  speak  of  it  to  a  single 
creature;  knowing  that  it  would  make  you  and 
my  mother  most  unhappy  whenever  it  were  ex¬ 
plained  to  you,  yet  unable  to  prepare  you  for  it 
in  the  least.  It  was  told  me — it  was  in  a  manner 
forced  on  me  by  the  very  person  herself  whose 
prior  engagement  ruined  all  my  prospects;  and 
told  me,  as  I  thought,  with  triumph.  This  per¬ 
son’s  suspicions,  therefore,  I  have  had  to  oppose, 
by  endeavouring  to  appear  indifferent  where  I 
have  been  most  deeply  interested.  And  it  has  not 
been  only  once ;  I  have  had  her  hopes  and  exulta¬ 
tion  to  listen  to  again  and  again.  I  have  known 
myself  to  be  divided  from  Edward  for  ever,  with¬ 
out  hearing  one  circumstance  that  could  make 
me  less  desire  the  connection.  Nothing  has  proved 
him  unworthy;  nor  has  anything  declared  him 
indiff  erent  to  me.  I  have  had  to  contend  against 
the  unkindness  of  his  sister,  and  the  insolence  of 
his  mother,  and  have  suffered  the  punishment  of 
an  attachment  without  enjoying  its  advantages. 
And  all  this  has  been  going  on  at  a  time  when,  as 
you  too  well  know,  it  has  not  been  my  only  unhap¬ 
piness.  If  you  can  think  me  capable  of  ever  feel¬ 
ing — surely  you  may  suppose  that  I  have  suf¬ 
fered  now .  The  composure  of  mind  with  which 

[135] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


I  have  brought  myself  at  present  to  consider  the 
matter,  the  consolation  that  I  have  been  willing 
to  admit,  have  been  the  effect  of  constant  and 
painful  exertion; — they  did  not  spring  up  of 
themselves;  they  did  not  occur  to  relieve  my 
spirits  at  first, — no,  Marianne.  Then ,  if  I  had 
not  been  bound  to  silence,  perhaps  nothing  could 
have  kept  me  entirely — not  even  what  I  owed  to 
my  dearest  friends — from  openly  shewing  that  I 
was  very  unhappy.” 

Marianne  was  quite  subdued. 

“Oh!  Elinor,”  she  cried,  “you  have  made  me 
hate  myself  for  ever.  How  barbarous  have  I 
been  to  you! — you,  who  have  been  my  only  com¬ 
fort,  who  have  borne  with  me  in  all  my  misery, 
who  have  seemed  to  be  only  suffering  for  me! — 
Is  this  my  gratitude?  Is  this  the  only  return  I 
can  make  you?  Because  your  merit  cries  out 
upon  myself,  I  have  been  trying  to  do  it  away.” 

The  tenderest  caresses  followed  this  confession. 
In  such  a  frame  of  mind  as  she  was  now  in,  Elinor 
had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  from  her  whatever 
promise  she  required;  and,  at  her  request,  Mari¬ 
anne  engaged  never  to  speak  of  the  aff  air  to  any 
one  with  the  least  appearance  of  bitterness; — to 
meet  Lucy  without  betraying  the  smallest  in¬ 
crease  of  dislike  to  her; — and  even  to  see  Edward 
himself,  if  chance  should  bring  them  together, 
without  any  diminution  of  her  usual  cordiality. 

[136] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


These  were  great  concessions,  but  where  Mari¬ 
anne  felt  that  she  had  injured,  no  reparation 
could  be  too  much  for  her  to  make. 

She  performed  her  promise  of  being  discreet  to 
admiration.  She  attended  to  all  that  Mrs  Jen¬ 
nings  had  to  say  upon  the  subject  with  an  un¬ 
changing  complexion,  dissented  from  her  in  noth¬ 
ing,  and  was  heard  three  times  to  say,  “Yes, 
ma’am.”  She  listened  to  her  praise  of  Lucy  with 
only  moving  from  one  chair  to  another,  and  when 
Mrs  Jennings  talked  of  Edward’s  affection,  it 
cost  her  only  a  spasm  in  her  throat.  Such  ad¬ 
vances  towards  heroism  in  her  sister,  made  Eli¬ 
nor  feel  equal  to  anything  herself. 

The  next  morning  brought  a  farther  trial  of  it, 
in  a  visit  from  their  brother,  who  came  with  a 
most  serious  aspect  to  talk  over  the  dreadful 
affair,  and  bring  them  news  of  his  wife. 

“You  have  heard,  I  suppose,”  said  he  with 
great  solemnity,  as  soon  as  he  was  seated,  “of  the 
very  shocking  discovery  that  took  place  under  our 
roof  yesterday.” 

They  all  looked  their  assent;  it  seemed  too 
awful  a  moment  for  speech. 

“Your  sister,”  he  continued,  “has  suffered 
dreadfully.  Mrs  Ferrars  too — in  short,  it  has 
been  a  scene  of  such  complicated  distress;  but  I 
will  hope  that  the  storm  may  be  weathered  with¬ 
out  our  being,  any  of  us,  quite  overcome.  Poor 

[137] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Fanny!  she  was  In  hysterics  all  yesterday.  But 
I  would  not  alarm  you  too  much.  Donavan  says 
there  is  nothing  materially  to  be  apprehended; 
her  constitution  is  a  good  one,  and  her  resolution 
equal  to  anything.  She  has  borne  it  all  with  the 
fortitude  of  an  angel!  She  says  she  never  shall 
think  well  of  anybody  again;  and  one  cannot 
wonder  at  it,  after  being  so  deceived! — meeting 
with  such  ingratitude,  where  so  much  kindness 
had  been  shewn,  so  much  confidence  had  been 
placed.  It  was  quite  out  of  the  benevolence  of 
her  heart  that  she  had  asked  these  young  women 
to  her  house ;  merely  because  she  thought  they  de¬ 
served  some  attention,  were  harmless,  well-be¬ 
haved  girls,  and  would  be  pleasant  companions; 
for  otherwise  we  both  wished  very  much  to  have 
invited  you  and  Marianne  to  be  with  us,  while 
your  kind  friend  there  was  attending  her  daugh¬ 
ter.  And  now  to  be  so  rewarded !  T  wish  with  all 
my  heart/  says  poor  Fanny  in  her  affectionate 
way,  ‘that  we  had  asked  your  sisters  instead  of 
them/  ” 

Here  he  stopped  to  be  thanked;  which  being 
done,  he  went  on. 

“What  poor  Mrs  Ferrars  suffered  when  first 
Fanny  broke  it  to  her,  is  not  to  be  described. 
While  she  with  the  truest  aff  ection  had  been  plan¬ 
ning  a  most  eligible  connection  for  him,  was  it  to 
be  supposed  that  he  could  be  all  the  time  secretly 
[138] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


engaged  to  another  person! — such  a  suspicion 
could  never  have  entered  her  head!  If  she  sus¬ 
pected  any  prepossession  elsewhere,  it  could  not 
be  in  that  quarter.  'There,  to  be  sure,’  said  she, 
T  might  have  thought  myself  safe.’  She  was 
quite  in  an  agony.  We  consulted  together,  how¬ 
ever,  as  to  what  should  be  done,  and  at  last  she 
determined  to  send  for  Edward.  He  came.  But 
I  am  sorry  to  relate  what  ensued.  All  that  Mrs 
F errars  could  say  to  make  him  put  an  end  to  the 
engagement,  assisted,  too,  as  you  may  well  sup¬ 
pose  by  my  arguments,  and  Fanny’s  entreaties, 
was  of  no  avail.  Duty,  aff ection,  everything  was 
disregarded.  I  never  thought  Edward  so  stub¬ 
born,  so  unfeeling,  before.  His  mother  ex¬ 
plained  to  him  her  liberal  designs,  in  case  of  his 
marrying  Miss  Morton ;  told  him  she  would  settle 
on  him  the  Norfolk  estate,  which,  clear  of  land- 
tax,  brings  in  a  good  thousand  a-year;  offered 
even,  when  matters  grew  desperate,  to  make  it 
twelve  hundred;  and  in  opposition  to  this,  if  he 
still  persisted  in  this  low  connection,  represented 
to  him  the  certain  penury  that  must  attend  the 
match.  His  own  two  thousand  pounds  she  pro¬ 
tested  should  be  his  all;  she  would  never  see  him 
again;  and  so  far  would  she  be  from  affording 
him  the  smallest  assistance,  that  if  he  were  to 
enter  into  any  profession  with  a  view  of  better 
support,  she  would  do  all  in  her  power  to  prevent 
his  advancing  in  it.” 


[139] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

Here  Marianne  in  an  ecstacy  of  indignation, 
clapped  her  hands  together  and  cried,  “Gracious 
God !  can  this  be  possible !” 

“Well  may  you  wonder,  Marianne,”  replied  her 
brother,  “at  the  obstinacy  which  could  resist  such 
arguments  as  these.  Your  exclamation  is  very 
natural.” 

Marianne  was  going  to  retort,  but  she  remem¬ 
bered  her  promises,  and  forbore. 

“All  this,  however,”  he  continued,  “was  urged 
in  vain.  Edward  said  very  little;  but  what  he 
did  say  was  in  the  most  determined  manner. 
Nothing  should  prevail  on  him  to  give  up  the  en¬ 
gagement.  He  would  stand  to  it,  cost  him  what 
it  might.” 

“Then,”  cried  Mrs  Jennings,  with  blunt  sincer¬ 
ity,  no  longer  able  to  be  silent,  “he  has  acted  like 
an  honest  man.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr  Dash- 
wood,  but  if  he  had  done  otherwise,  I  should  have 
thought  him  a  rascal.  I  have  some  little  concern 
in  the  business,  as  well  as  yourself,  for  Lucy 
Steele  is  my  cousin,  and  I  believe  there  is  not  a 
better  kind  of  girl  in  the  world,  nor  one  who  more 
deserves  a  good  husband.” 

J ohn  Dashwood  was  greatly  astonished ;  but  his 
nature  was  calm,  not  open  to  provocation,  and  he 
never  wished  to  offend  anybody,  especially  any¬ 
body  of  good  fortune.  He  therefore  replied, 
without  any  resentment — 

“I  w^ould  by  no  means  speak  disrespectfully  of 

[140] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


any  relation  of  yours,  madam.  Miss  Lucy  Steele 
is,  I  dare  say,  a  very  deserving  young  woman,  but 
in  the  present  case,  you  know,  the  connection  must 
be  impossible.  And  to  have  entered  into  a  secret 
engagement  with  a  young  man  under  her  uncle’s 
care,  the  son  of  a  woman  especially  of  such  very 
large  fortune  as  Mrs  Ferrars,  is  perhaps  alto¬ 
gether  a  little  extraordinary.  In  short,  I  do  not 
mean  to  reflect  upon  the  behaviour  of  any  person 
whom  you  have  a  regard  for,  Mrs  Jennings.  We 
all  wish  her  extremely  happy,  and  Mrs  Ferrars’s 
conduct  throughout  the  whole  has  been  such  as 
every  conscientious,  good  mother,  in  like  circum¬ 
stances,  would  adopt.  It  has  been  dignified  and 
liberal.  Edward  has  drawn  his  own  lot,  and  I 
fear  it  will  be  a  bad  one.” 

Marianne  sighed  out  her  similar  apprehension ; 
and  Elinor’s  heart  wrung  for  the  feelings  of 
Edward,  while  braving  his  mother’s  threats,  for  a 
woman  who  could  not  reward  him. 

“Well,  sir,”  said  Mrs  Jennings,  “and  how  did 
it  end?” 

“I  am  sorry  to  say,  ma’am,  in  a  most  unhappy 
rupture — Edward  is  dismissed  for  ever  from  his 
mother’s  notice.  He  left  her  house  yesterday,  but 
where  he  is  gone,  or  whether  he  is  still  in  town,  I 
do  not  know;  for  we  of  course  can  make  no 
inquiry.” 

“Poor  young  man!  and  what  is  to  become  of 
him?” 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“What  indeed,  ma’am!  It  is  a  melancholy  con¬ 
sideration.  Born  to  the  prospect  of  such  afflu¬ 
ence  !  I  cannot  conceive  a  situation  more  deplor¬ 
able.  The  interest  of  two  thousand  pounds — how 
can  a  man  live  on  it ! — and  when  to  that  is  added 
the  recollection  that  he  might,  but  for  his  own 
folly,  within  three  months  have  been  in  the  receipt 
of  two  thousand  five  hundred  a-year  (for  Miss 
Morton  has  thirty  thousand  pounds),  I  cannot 
picture  to  myself  a  more  wretched  condition.  We 
must  all  feel  for  him;  and  the  more  so,  because  it 
is  totally  out  of  our  power  to  assist  him.” 

“Poor  young  man!”  cried  Mrs  Jennings,  “I 
am  sure  he  should  be  very  welcome  to  bed  and 
board  at  my  house ;  and  so  I  would  tell  him,  if  I 
could  see  him.  It  is  not  fit  that  he  should  be 
living  about  at  his  own  charge  now,  at  lodgings 
and  taverns.” 

Elinor’s  heart  thanked  her  for  such  kindness 
towards  Edward,  though  she  could  not  forbear 
smiling  at  the  form  of  it. 

“If  he  would  only  have  done  as  well  by  him¬ 
self,”  said  John  Dash  wood,  “as  all  his  friends 
were  disposed  to  do  by  him,  he  might  now  have 
been  in  his  proper  situation,  and  would  have 
wanted  for  nothing.  But  as  it  is,  it  must  be  out 
of  anybody’s  power  to  assist  him.  And  there  is 
one  thing  more  preparing  against  him,  which 
must  be  worse  than  all — his  mother  has  deter- 
[142] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


mined,  with  a  very  natural  kind  of  spirit,  to  settle 
that  estate  upon  Robert  immediately,  which 
might  have  been  Edward’s  on  proper  conditions. 
I  left  her  this  morning  with  her  lawyer,  talking 
over  the  business.” 

“Well!”  said  Mrs  Jennings,  “that  is  her  re¬ 
venge.  Everybody  has  a  way  of  their  own.  But 
I  don’t  think  mine  would  be  to  make  one  son  inde¬ 
pendent  because  another  had  plagued  me.” 

Marianne  got  up,  and  walked  about  the  room. 

“Can  anything  be  more  galling  to  the  spirit  of 
a  man,”  continued  John,  “than  to  see  his  younger 
brother  in  possession  of  an  estate  which  might 
have  been  his  own?  Poor  Edward!  I  feel  for 
him  sincerely.” 

A  few  minutes  more  spent  in  the  same  kind  of 
effusion,  concluded  his  visit;  and  with  repeated 
assurances  to  his  sisters  that  he  really  believed 
there  was  no  material  danger  in  Fanny’s  indispo¬ 
sition,  and  that  they  need  not  therefore  be  very 
uneasy  about  it,  he  went  away ;  leaving  the  three 
ladies  unanimous  in  their  sentiments  on  the  pres¬ 
ent  occasion,  as  far  at  least  as  it  regarded 
Mrs  Ferrars’s  conduct,  the  Dash  woods’,  and 
Edward’s. 

Marianne’s  indignation  burst  forth  as  soon  as 
he  quitted  the  room ;  and  as  her  vehemence  made 
reserve  impossible  in  Elinor,  and  unnecessary  in 
Mrs  Jennings,  they  all  joined  in  a  very  spirited 
critique  upon  the  party. 


[143] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 


MRS  JENNINGS  was  very  warm  in  ner 
praise  of  Edward’s  conduct,  but  only 
Elinor  and  Marianne  understood  its 
true  merit.  They  only  knew  how  little  he  had 
had  to  tempt  him  to  be  disobedient,  and  how  small 
was  the  consolation,  beyond  the  consciousness  of 
doing  right,  that  could  remain  to  him  in  the  loss 
of  friends  and  fortune.  Elinor  gloried  in  his 
integrity;  and  Marianne  forgave  all  his  offences 
in  compassion  for  his  punishment.  But  though 
confidence  between  them  was,  by  this  public  dis¬ 
covery,  restored  to  its  proper  state,  it  was  not  a 
subject  on  which  either  of  them  were  fond  of 
dwelling  when  alone.  Elinor  avoided  it  upon 
principle,  as  tending  to  fix  still  more  upon  her 
thoughts,  by  the  too  warm,  too  positive  assur¬ 
ances  of  Marianne,  that  belief  of  Edward’s  con¬ 
tinued  affection  for  herself,  which  she  rather 
wished  to  do  away;  and  Marianne’s  courage  soon 
failed  her,  in  trying  to  converse  upon  a  topic 
which  always  left  her  more  dissatisfied  with  her¬ 
self  than  ever,  by  the  comparison  it  necessarily 
produced  between  Elinor’s  conduct  and  her  own. 

She  felt  all  the  force  of  that  comparison;  but 
not  as  her  sister  had  hoped,  to  urge  her  to  exer¬ 
tion  now;  she  felt  it  with  all  the  pain  of  continual 
[144] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

self-reproach,  regretted  most  bitterly  that  she 
had  never  exerted  herself  before;  but  it  brought 
only  the  torture  of  penitence,  without  the  hope  of 
amendment.  Her  mind  was  so  much  weakened 
that  she  still  fancied  present  exertion  impossible, 
and  therefore  it  only  dispirited  her  more. 

Nothing  new  was  heard  by  them  for  a  day  or 
two  afterwards,  of  affairs  in  Harley-street,  or 
Bartlett’s  Buildings.  But  though  so  much  of  the 
matter  was  known  to  them  already,  that  Mrs 
Jennings  might  have  had  enough  to  do  in  spread¬ 
ing  that  knowledge  farther,  without  seeking  after 
more,  she  had  resolved  from  the  first  to  pay  a  visit 
of  comfort  and  inquiry  to  her  cousins  as  soon  as 
she  could ;  and  nothing  but  the  hindrance  of  more 
visitors  than  usual,  had  prevented  her  going  to 
them  within  that  time. 

The  third  day  succeeding  their  knowledge  of 
the  particulars,  was  so  fine,  so  beautiful  a  Sunday 
as  to  draw  many  to  Kensington  Gardens,  though 
it  was  only  the  second  week  in  March.  Mrs  Jen¬ 
nings  and  Elinor  were  of  the  number ;  but  Mari¬ 
anne,  who  knew  that  the  Willoughby s  were  again 
in  town,  and  had  a  constant  dread  of  meeting 
them,  chose  rather  to  stay  at  home,  than  venture 
into  so  public  a  place. 

An  intimate  acquaintance  of  Mrs  Jennings 
joined  them  soon  after  they  entered  the  Gardens, 
and  Elinor  was  not  sorry  that  by  her  continuing 

[145] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


with  them,  and  engaging  all  Mrs  Jennings’s  con¬ 
versation,  she  was  herself  left  to  quiet  reflection. 
She  saw  nothing  of  the  Willoughbys,  nothing  of 
Edward,  and  for  some  time  nothing  of  anybody 
who  could  by  any  chance,  whether  grave  or  gay, 
be  interesting  to  her.  But  at  last,  she  found  her¬ 
self,  with  some  surprise,  accosted  by  Miss  Steele, 
who,  though  looking  rather  shy,  expressed  great 
satisfaction  in  meeting  them,  and  on  receiving 
encouragement  from  the  particular  kindness  of 
Mrs  Jennings,  left  her  own  party  for  a  short 
time,  to  join  theirs.  Mrs  Jennings  immediately 
whispered  to  Elinor — 

“Get  it  all  out  of  her,  my  dear.  She  will  tell 
you  anything  if  you  ask.  You  see  I  cannot  leave 
Mrs  Clarke.” 

It  was  lucky,  however,  for  Mrs  Jennings’s 
curiosity,  and  Elinor’s  too,  that  she  would  tell 
anything  without  being  asked,  for  nothing  would 
otherwise  have  been  learnt. 

“I  am  so  glad  to  meet  you,”  said  Miss  Steele, 
taking  her  familiarly  by  the  arm,  “for  I  wanted 
to  see  you  of  all  things  in  the  world;”  and  then 
lowering  her  voice,  “I  suppose  Mrs  Jennings  has 
heard  all  about  it.  Is  she  angry?” 

“Not  at  all,  I  believe,  with  you.” 

“That  is  a  good  thing.  And  Lady  Middleton, 
is  she  angry?” 

“I  cannot  suppose  it  possible  that  she  should.” 

[146] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“I  am  monstrous  glad  of  it.  Good  gracious !  I 
have  had  such  a  time  of  it !  I  never  saw  Lucy  in 
such  a  rage  in  my  life.  She  vowed  at  first  she 
would  never  trim  me  up  a  new  bonnet,  nor  do 
anything  else  for  me  again,  so  long  as  she  lived; 
but  now  she  is  quite  come  to,  and  we  are  as  good, 
friends  as  ever.  Look,  she  made  me  this  bow  to 
my  hat,  and  put  in  the  feather  last  night.  There 
now,  you  are  going  to  laugh  at  me  too.  But  why 
should  not  I  wear  pink  ribbons  ?  I  do  not  care  if 
it  is  the  Doctor’s  favourite  colour.  I  am  sure,  for 
my  part,  I  should  never  have  known  he  did  like 
it  better  than  any  other  colour,  if  he  had  not 
happened  to  say  so.  My  cousins  have  been  so 
plaguing  me!  I  declare  sometimes,  I  do  not 
know  which  way  to  look  before  them.” 

She  had  wandered  away  to  a  subject  on  which 
Elinor  had  nothing  to  say,  and  therefore  soon 
judged  it  expedient  to  find  her  way  back  again 
to  the  first. 

“Well,  but,  Miss  Dash  wood,”  speaking  tri¬ 
umphantly,  “people  may  say  what  they  chuse 
about  Mr  Ferrars’s  declaring  he  would  not  have 
Lucy,  for  it’s  no  such  a  thing,  I  can  tell  you;  and 
it’s  quite  a  shame  for  such  ill-natured  reports  to 
be  spread  abroad.  Whatever  Lucy  might  think 
about  it  herself,  you  know  it  was  no  business  of 
other  people  to  set  it  down  for  certain.” 

“I  never  heard  anything  of  the  kind  hinted  at 
before,  I  assure  you,”  said  Elinor. 


[147] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Oh!  did  not  you?  But  it  was  said,  I  know 
very  well,  and  by  more  than  one;  for  Miss  Godby 
told  Miss  Sparks,  that  nobody  in  their  senses 
could  expect  Mr  F errars  to  give  up  a  woman  like 
Miss  Morton,  with  thirty  thousand  pounds  to  her 
fortune,  for  Lucy  Steele,  that  had  nothing  at 
all;  and  I  had  it  from  Miss  Sparks  myself.  And 
besides  that,  my  cousin  Bichard  said  himself,  that 
when  it  came  to  the  point,  he  was  afraid  Mr 
Ferrars  would  be  off ;  and  when  Edward  did  not 
come  near  us  for  three  days,  I  could  not  tell  what 
to  think  myself ;  and  I  believe  in  my  heart  Lucy 
gave  it  up  all  for  lost;  for  we  came  away  from 
your  brother’s  Wednesday,  and  we  saw  nothing 
of  him  not  all  Thursday,  Friday,  and  Saturday, 
and  did  not  know  what  was  become  with  him. 
Once  Lucy  thought  to  write  to  him,  but  then  her 
spirit  rose  against  that.  However,  this  morning 
he  came,  just  as  we  came  home  from  church;  and 
then  it  all  came  out,  how  he  had  been  sent  for 
Wednesday  to  Harley-street,  and  been  talked  to 
bv  his  mother  and  all  of  them,  and  how  he  had 
declared  before  them  all  that  he  loved  nobody  but 
Lucy,  and  nobody  but  Lucy  would  he  have.  And 
now  he  had  been  so  worried  by  what  passed,  that 
as  soon  as  he  had  went  away  from  his  mother’s 
house,  he  had  got  upon  his  horse,  and  rid  into  the 
country  somewhere  or  other;  and  how  he  had 
staid  about  at  an  inn  all  Thursday  and  Friday. 

[148] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

on  purpose  to  get  the  better  of  it.  And  after 
thinking  it  all  over  and  over  again,  he  said  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if,  now  he  had  no  fortune,  and 
no  nothing  at  all,  it  would  be  quite  unkind  to  keep 
her  on  to  the  engagement,  because  it  must  be  for 
her  loss,  for  he  had  nothing  but  two  thousand 
pounds,  and  no  hope  of  anything  else;  and  if  he 
was  to  go  into  orders,  as  he  had  some  thoughts,  he 
could  get  nothing  but  a  curacy,  and  how  was  they 
to  live  upon  that? — He  could  not  bear  to  think  of 
her  doing  no  better,  and  so  he  begged,  if  she  had 
the  least  mind  for  it,  to  put  an  end  to  the  matter 
directly,  and  leave  him  to  shift  for  himself.  I 
heard  him  say  all  this  as  plain  as  could  possibly 
be.  And  it  was  entirely  for  her  sake,  and  upon 
her  account,  that  he  said  a  word  about  being  off, 
and  not  upon  his  own.  I  will  take  my  oath  he 
never  dropt  a  syllable  of. being  tired  of  her,  or  of 
wishing  to  marry  Miss  Morton,  or  anything  like 
it.  But,  to  be  sure,  Lucy  would  not  give  ear  to 
such  kind  of  talking;  so  she  told  him  directly 
(with  a  great  deal  about  sweet  and  love,  you 
know,  and  all  that — Oh,  la !  one  can’t  repeat  such 
kind  of  things,  you  know) — she  told  him  directly, 
she  had  not  the  least  mind  in  the  world  to  be  off, 
for  she  could  live  with  him  upon  a  trifle,  and  how 
little  soever  he  might  have,  she  should  be  very 
glad  to  have  it  all,  you  know,  or  something  of  the 
kind.  So  then  he  was  monstrous  happy,  and 

[149] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY, 


talked  on  some  time  about  what  they  should  do, 
and  they  agreed  he  should  take  orders  directly, 
and  they  must  wait  to  be  married  till  he  got  a  liv¬ 
ing.  And  just  then  I  could  not  hear  any  more, 
for  my  cousin  called  from  below  to  tell  me  Mrs 
Richardson  was  come  in  her  coach,  and  would 
take  one  of  us  to  Kensington  Gardens;  so  I  was 
forced  to  go  into  the  room  and  interrupt  them,  to 
ask  Lucy  if  she  would  like  to  go,  but  she  did  not 
care  to  leave  Edward;  so  I  just  run  upstairs  and 
put  on  a  pair  of  silk  stockings,  and  came  off  with 
the  Richardsons.” 

“I  do  not  understand  what  you  mean  by  inter¬ 
rupting  them,”  said  Elinor;  “you  were  all  in  the 
same  room  together,  were  not  you?” 

“No  indeed!  not  us.  La!  Miss  Dash  wood,  do 
you  think  people  make  love  when  anybody  else  is 
by  ?  Oh !  f  or  shame ! — To  be  sure,  you  must  know 
better  than  that.”  (Laughing  affectedly.)  — “No, 
no;  they  were  shut  up  in  the  drawing-room 
together,  and  all  I  heard  was  only  by  listening  at 
the  door.” 

“How!”  cried  Elinor;  “have  you  been  repeat¬ 
ing  to  me  what  you  only  learnt  yourself  by  lis¬ 
tening  at  the  door  ?  I  am  sorry  I  did  not  know  it 
before;  for  I  certainly  would  not  have  suffered 
you  to  give  me  particulars  of  a  conversation  which 
you  ought  not  to  have  known  yourself.  How 
could  you  behave  so  unfairly  by  your  sister?” 

[150] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“Oh,  la!  there  is  nothing  in  that.  I  only  stood 
at  the  door,  and  heard  what  I  could.  And  I  am 
sure  Lucy  would  have  done  just  the  same  by  me; 
for,  a  year  or  two  back,  when  Martha  Sharpe  and 
I  had  so  many  secrets  together,  she  never  made 
any  bones  of  hiding  in  a  closet,  or  behind  a  chim¬ 
ney-board,  on  purpose  to  hear  what  we  said.” 

Elinor  tried  to  talk  of  something  else ;  but  Miss 
Steele  could  not  be  kept  beyond  a  couple  of 
minutes  from  what  was  uppermost  in  her  mind. 

“Edward  talks  of  going  to  Oxford  soon,”  said 
she,  “but  now  he  is  lodging  at  No. — ,  Pall  Mall. 
What  an  ill-natured  woman  his  mother  is,  an’t 
she?  And  your  brother  and  sister  were  not  very 
kind!  However,  I  shan’t  say  anything  against 
them  to  you ;  and  to  be  sure  they  did  send  us  home 
in  their  own  chariot,  which  was  more  than  I 
looked  for.  And  for  my  part,  I  was  all  in  a 
fright  for  fear  your  sister  should  ask  us  for  the 
huswifes  she  had  gave  us  a  day  or  two  before; 
but  however,  nothing  was  said  about  them,  and  I 
took  care  to  keep  mine  out  of  sight.  Edward 
have  got  some  business  at  Oxford,  he  says,  so  he 
must  go  there  for  a  time:  and  after  that ,  as  soon 
as  he  can  light  upon  a  bishop,  h6  will  be  ordained. 
I  wonder  what  curacy  he  will  get ! — Good 
gracious!”  (giggling  as  she  spoke)  “I’d  lay  my 
life  I  know  what  my  cousins  will  say,  when  they 
hear  of  it.  They  will  tell  me  I  should  write  to  the 

[151] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Doctor,  to  get  Edward  the  curacy  of  his  new 
living.  I  know  they  will ;  but  I  am  sure  I  would 
not  do  such  a  thing  for  all  the  world. — ‘La!’  I 
shall  say  directly,  T  wonder  how  you  could  think 
of  such  a  thing.  I  write  to  the  Doctor,  indeed!’  ” 

“Well,”  said  Elinor,  “it  is  a  comfort  to  be  pre¬ 
pared  against  the  worst.  You  have  got  your 
answer  ready.” 

Miss  Steele  was  going  to  reply  on  the  same 
subject,  but  the  approach  of  her  own  party  made 
another  more  necessary. 

“Oh,  la!  here  comes  the  Richardsons.  I  had  a 
vast  deal  more  to  say  to  you,  but  I  must  not  stay 
away  from  them  not  any  longer.  I  assure  you 
they  are  very  genteel  people.  He  makes  a 
monstrous  deal  of  money,  and  they  keep  their 
own  coach.  I  have  not  time  to  speak  to  Mrs 
Jennings  about  it  myself,  but  pray  tell  her  I  am 
quite  happy  to  hear  she  is  not  in  anger  against 
us,  and  Lady  Middleton  the  same;  and  if  any¬ 
thing  should  happen  to  take  you  and  your  sister 
away,  and  Mrs  Jennings  should  want  company, 

i 

I  am  sure  we  should  be  very  glad  to  come  and  stay 
with  her  for  as  long  a  time  as  she  likes.  I  sup¬ 
pose  Lady  Middleton  won’t  ask  us  any  more  this 
bout.  Good-bye ;  I  am  sorry  Miss  Marianne  was 
not  here.  Remember  me  kindly  to  her.  La!  if 
you  have  not  got  your  spotted  muslin  on! — I 
wonder  you  was  not  afraid  of  its  being  torn.” 

[152] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Such  was  her  parting  concern;  for  after  this, 
she  had  time  only  to  pay  her  farewell  compli¬ 
ments  to  Mrs  Jennings,  before  her  company  was 
claimed  by  Mrs  Richardson :  and  Elinor  was  left 
in  possession  of  knowledge  which  might  feed  her 
powers  of  reflection  some  time,  though  she  had 
learnt  very  little  more  than  what  had  been  already 
foreseen  and  foreplanned  in  her  own  mind. 
Edward’s  marriage  with  Lucy  was  as  firmly  de¬ 
termined  on,  and  the  time  of  its  taking  place 
remained  as  absolutely  uncertain,  as  she  had  con¬ 
cluded  it  would  be; — everything  depended,  ex¬ 
actly  after  her  expectation,  on  his  getting  that 
preferment,  of  which,  at  present,  there  seemed 
not  the  smallest  chance. 

As  soon  as  they  returned  to  the  carriage,  Mrs 
Jennings  was  eager  for  information;  but  as  Eli¬ 
nor  wished  to  spread  as  little  as  possible  intelli¬ 
gence  that  had  in  the  first  place  been  so  unfairly 
obtained,  she  confined  herself  to  the  brief  repeti¬ 
tion  of  such  simple  particulars,  as  she  f  elt  assured 
that  Lucy,  for  the  sake  of  her  own  consequence, 
would  chuse  to  have  known.  The  continuance  of 
their  engagement,  and  the  means  that  were  to 
be  taken  for  promoting  its  end,  was  all  her  com¬ 
munication;  and  this  produced  from  Mrs  Jen¬ 
nings  the  following  natural  remark: — 

“Wait  for  his  having  a  living! — aye,  we  all 
know  how  that  will  end ; — they  will  wait  a  twelve- 

[153] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


month,  and  finding  no  good  comes  of  it,  will  set 
down  upon  a  curacy  of  fifty  pounds  a-year,  with 
the  interest  of  his  two  thousand  pounds,  and  what 
little  matter  Mr  Steele  and  Mr  Pratt  can  give 
her. — Then  they  will  have  a  child  every  year! 
and  Lord  help  ’em!  how  poor  they  will  be! — I 
must  see  what  I  can  give  them  towards  furnish¬ 
ing  their  house.  Two  maids  and  two  men  indeed ! 
— as  I  talked  of  t’other  day. — No,  no,  they  must 
get  a  stout  girl  of  all  works. — Betty^s  sister 
would  never  do  for  them  now” 

The  next  morning  brought  Elinor  a  letter  by 
the  two-penny  post,  from  Lucy  herself.  It  was 
as  follows: — 


Bartlett’s  Buildings,  March . 

I  hope  my  dear  Miss  Dash  wood  will  excuse  the 
liberty  I  take  of  writing  to  her ;  but  I  know  your 
friendship  for  me  will  make  you  pleased  to  hear 
such  a  good  account  of  myself  and  my  dear 
Edward,  after  all  the  troubles  we  have  went 
through  lately,  therefore  will  make  no  more 
apologies,  but  proceed  to  say  that,  thank  God! 
though  we  have  suffered  dreadfully,  we  are  both 
quite  well  now,  and  as  happy  as  we  must  always 
be  in  one  another’s  love.  We  have  had  great 
trials,  and  great  persecutions,  but  however,  at  the 
same  time,  gratefully  acknowledge  many  friends, 
yourself  not  the  least  among  them,  whose  great 
[154] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


kindness  I  shall  always  thankfully  remember,  as 
will  Edward  too,  who  I  have  told  of  it.  I  am 
sure  you  will  be  glad  to  hear,  as  likewise  dear  Mrs 
Jennings,  I  spent  two  happy  hours  with  him  yes¬ 
terday  afternoon,  he  would  not  hear  of  our  part¬ 
ing,  though  earnestly  did  I,  as  I  thought  my  duty 
required,  urge  him  to  it  for  prudence  sake,  and 
would  have  parted  for  ever  on  the  spot,  would  he 
consent  to  it;  but  he  said  it  should  never  be,  he 
did  not  regard  his  mother’s  anger,  while  he  could 
have  my  affections;  our  prospects  are  not  very 
bright,  to  be  sure,  but  we  must  wait,  and  hope  for 
the  best;  he  will  be  ordained  shortly,  and  should 
it  ever  be  in  your  power  to  recommend  him  to 
anybody  that  has  a  living  to  bestow,  am  very  sure 
you  will  not  forget  us,  and  dear  Mrs  Jennings 
too,  trust  she  will  speak  a  good  word  for  us  to  Sir 
John,  or  Mr  Palmer,  or  any  friend  that  may  be 
able  to  assist  us. — Poor  Anne  was  much  to  blame 
for  what  she  did,  but  she  did  it  for  the  best,  so  I 
say  nothing;  hope  Mrs  Jennings  won’t  think  it 
too  much  trouble  to  give  us  a  call,  should  she  come 
this  way  any  morning,  ’twould  be  a  great  kind¬ 
ness,  and  my  cousins  would  be  proud  to  know 
her. — My  paper  reminds  me  to  conclude,  and 
begging  to  be  most  gratefully  and  respectfully 
remembered  to  her,  and  to  Sir  John  and  Lady 
Middleton,  and  the  dear  children,  when  you 
chance  to  see  them,  and  love  to  Miss  Marianne, 

I  am,  &c.,  &c. 

[155] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


As  soon  as  Elinor  had  finished  it,  she  per¬ 
formed  what  she  concluded  to  be  its  writer’s  real 
design,  by  placing  it  in  the  hands  of  Mrs  Jen¬ 
nings,  who  read  it  aloud  with  many  comments  of 
satisfaction  and  praise. 

“Very  well  indeed! — how  prettily  she  writes! — 
aye,  that  was  quite  proper  to  let  him  be  off  if  he 
would.  That  was  just  like  Lucy. — Poor  soul! 
I  wish  I  could  get  him  a  living  with  all  my  heart. 
— She  calls  me  dear  Mrs  Jennings,  you  see.  She 
is  a  good-hearted  girl  as  ever  lived. — Very  well, 
upon  my  word.  That  sentence  is  very  prettily 
turned.  Yes,  yes,  I  will  go  and  see  her  sure 
enough.  How  attentive  she  is,  to  think  of  every¬ 
body! — Thank  you,  my  dear,  for  shewing  it  me. 
It  is  as  pretty  a  letter  as  ever  I  saw,  and  does 
Lucy’s  head  and  heart  great  credit.” 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 


THE  Miss  Dashwoods  had  now  been  rather 
more  than  two  months  in  town,  and 
Marianne’s  impatience  to  be  gone  in¬ 
creased  every  day.  She  sighed  for  the  air,  the 
liberty,  the  quiet  of  the  country ;  and  f  ancied  that 
if  any  place  could  give  her  ease,  Barton  must  do 
it.  Elinor  was  hardly  less  anxious  than  herself 
[156] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


for  their  removal,  and  only  so  much  less  bent  on 
its  being  effected  immediately,  as  that  she  was 
conscious  of  the  difficulties  of  so  long  a  journey, 
which  Marianne  could  not  be  brought  to  acknowl¬ 
edge.  She  began,  however,  seriously  to  turn  her 
thoughts  towards  its  accomplishment,  and  had 
already  mentioned  their  wishes  to  their  kind 
hostess,  who  resisted  them  with  all  the  eloquence 
of  her  good-will,  when  a  plan  was  suggested, 
which  though  detaining  them  from  home  yet  a 
few  weeks  longer,  appeared  to  Elinor  altogether 
much  more  eligible  than  any  other.  The  Palmers 
were  to  remove  to  Cleveland  about  the  end  of 
March,  for  the  Easter  holidays;  and  Mrs  Jen¬ 
nings,  with  both  her  friends,  received  a  very  warm 
invitation  from  Charlotte  to  go  with  them.  This 
would  not,  in  itself,  have  been  sufficient  for  the 
delicacy  of  Miss  Dash  wood; — but  it  was  inforced 
with  so  much  real  politeness  by  Mr  Palmer  him¬ 
self,  as,  joined  to  the  very  great  amendment  of 
his  manners  towards  them  since  her  sister  had 
been  known  to  be  unhappy,  induced  her  to  accept 
it  with  pleasure. 

When  she  told  Marianne  what  she  had  done, 
however,  her  first  reply  was  not  very  auspicious. 

“ Cleveland!” — she  cried,  with  great  agitation. 
“No,  I  cannot  go  to  Cleveland.” 

“You  forget,”  said  Elinor  gently,  “that  its 
situation  is  not  ....  that  it  is  not  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  .  .  .  .  ” 


[1571 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“But  it  is  in  Somersetshire. — I  cannot  go  into 
Somersetshire. — There,  where  I  looked  forward 
to  going  .  .  .No,  Elinor,  you  cannot  expect 
me  to  go  there.” 

Elinor  would  not  argue  upon  the  propriety  of 
overcoming  such  f  eelings ; — she  only  endeavoured 
to  counteract  them  by  working  on  others; — and 
represented  it,  therefore,  as  a  measure  which 
would  fix  the  time  of  her  returning  to  that  dear 
mother,  whom  she  so  much  wished  to  see,  in  a 
more  eligible,  more  comfortable  manner,  than 
any  other  plan  could  do,  and  perhaps  without  any 
greater  delay.  From  Cleveland,  which  was 
within  a  few  miles  of  Bristol,  the  distance  to  Bar¬ 
ton  was  not  beyond  one  day,  though  a  long  day’s 
journey;  and  their  mother’s  servant  might  easily 
come  there  to  attend  them  down;  and  as  there 
could  be  no  occasion  for  their  staying  above  a 
week  at  Cleveland,  they  might  now  be  at  home  in 
little  more  than  three  weeks’  time.  As  Mari¬ 
anne’s  affection  for  her  mother  was  sincere,  it 
must  triumph,  with  little  difficulty,  over  the  im¬ 
aginary  evils  she  had  started. 

Mrs  Jennings  was  so  far  from  being  weary  of 
her  guests,  that  she  pressed  them  very  earnestly 
to  return  with  her  again  from  Cleveland.  Elinor 
was  grateful  for  the  attention,  but  it  could  not 
alter  their  design;  and  their  mother’s  concur¬ 
rence  being  readily  gained,  everything  relative  to 
[158] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


their  return  was  arranged  as  far  as  it  could  be; — 
and  Marianne  f ound  some  relief  in  drawing  up  a 
statement  of  the  hours  that  were  yet  to  divide  her 
from  Barton. 

“Ah!  Colonel,  I  do  not  know  what  you  and  I 
shall  do  without  the  Miss  Dash  woods,” — was  Mrs 
Jennings’s  address  to  him  when  he  first  called  on 
her,  after  their  leaving  her  was  settled — “for  they 
are  quite  resolved  upon  going  home  from  the 
Palmers; — and  how  forlorn  we  shall  be,  when  I 
come  back! — Lord!  we  shall  sit  and  gape  at  one 
another  as  dull  as  two  cats.” 

Perhaps  Mrs  Jennings  was  in  hopes,  by  this 
vigorous  sketch  of  their  future  ennui,  to  provoke 
him  to  make  that  offer  which  might  give  himself 
an  escape  from  it — and  if  so,  she  had  soon  after¬ 
wards  good  reason  to  think  her  object  gained; 
for,  on  Elinor’s  moving  to  the  window  to  take 
more  expeditiously  the  dimensions  of  a  print 
which  she  was  going  to  copy  for  her  friend,  he 
followed  her  to  it  with  a  look  of  particular  mean¬ 
ing,  and  conversed  with  her  there  for  several  min¬ 
utes.  The  eff  ect  of  this  discourse  on  the  lady  too, 
could  not  escape  her  observation;  for  though  she 
was  too  honourable  to  listen,  and  had  even 
changed  her  seat  on  purpose  that  she  might  not 
hear,  to  one  close  by  the  pianoforte  on  which 
Marianne  was  playing,  she  could  not  keep  herself 
from  seeing  that  Elinor  changed  colour,  attended 

[159] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


with  agitation,  and  was  too  intent  on  what  he 
said,  to  pursue  her  employment. — Still  farther  in 
confirmation  of  her  hopes,  in  the  interval  of 
Marianne’s  turning  from  one  lesson  to  another, 
some  words  of  the  Colonel’s  inevitably  reached 
her  ear,  in  which  he  seemed  to  be  apologizing  for 
the  badness  of  his  house.  [This  set]  the  matter 
beyond  a  doubt.  She  wondered  indeed  at  his 
thinking  it  necessary  to  do  so; — but  supposed  it 
to  be  the  proper  etiquette.  What  Elinor  said  in 
reply  she  could  not  distinguish,  but  judged  from 
the  motion  of  her  lips  that  she  did  not  think  that 
any  material  objection; — and  Mrs  Jennings  com¬ 
mended  her  in  her  heart  for  being  so  honest. 
They  then  talked  on  for  a  few  minutes  longer 
without  her  catching  a  syllable,  when  another 
lucky  stop  in  Marianne’s  performance  brought 
her  these  words  in  the  Colonel’s  calm  voice — 

“I  am  afraid  it  cannot  take  place  very  soon.” 
Astonished  and  shocked  at  so  unlover-like  a 
speech,  she  was  almost  ready  to  cry  out,  “Lord! 
what  should  hinder  it!” — but  checking  her  desire, 
confined  herself  to  this  silent  ejaculation — 

“This  is  very  strange! — sure  he  need  not  wait 
to  be  older.” 

This  delay  on  the  Colonel’s  side,  however,  did 
not  seem  to  offend  or  mortify  his  fair  com¬ 
panion  in  the  least;  for  on  their  breaking  up  the 
conference  soon  afterwards,  and  moving  differ- 
[160] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


ent  ways,  Mrs  Jennings  very  plainly  heard  Eli¬ 
nor  say,  and  in  a  voice  which  shewed  her  to  feel 
what  she  said — 

“I  shall  always  think  myself  very  much  obliged 
to  you.” 

Mrs  Jennings  was  delighted  with  her  gratitude, 
and  only  wondered,  that  after  hearing  such  a 
sentence,  the  Colonel  should  be  able  to  take  leave 
of  them,  as  he  immediately  did,  with  the  utmost 
sang-froid,  and  go  without  making  her  any 
reply ! — She  had  not  thought  her  old  friend  could 
have  made  so  indiff erent  a  suitor. 

What  had  really  passed  between  them  was  to 
this  effect — 

“I  have  heard,”  said  he,  with  great  compassion, 
“of  the  injustice  your  friend  Mr  Ferrars  has  suf¬ 
fered  from  his  family;  for  if  I  understand  the 
matter  right,  he  has  been  entirely  cast  off  by 
them  for  persevering  in  his  engagement  with  a 
very  deserving  young  woman. — Have  I  been 
rightly  informed? — Is  it  so?” 

Elinor  told  him  it  was. 

“The  cruelty,  the  impolitic  cruelty,”  he  replied, 
with  great  feeling,  “of  dividing,  or  attempting 
to  divide,  two  young  people  long  attached  to  each 
other,  is  terrible; — Mrs  Ferrars  does  not  know 
what  she  may  be  doing — what  she  may  drive  her 
son  to.  I  have  seen  Mr  Ferrars  two  or  three 
times  in  Harley-street,  and  am  much  pleased  with 

[161] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


him.  He  is  not  a  young  man  with  whom  one  can 
be  intimately  acquainted  in  a  short  time,  but  I 
have  seen  enough  of  him  to  wish  him  well  for  his 
own  sake,  and  as  a  friend  of  yours,  I  wish  it  still 
more.  I  understand  that  he  intends  to  take 
orders.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  tell  him  that 
the  living  of  Delaford,  now  just  vacant,  as  I  am 
informed  by  this  day’s  post,  is  his,  if  he  think  it 
worth  his  acceptance; — but  that ,  perhaps,  so  un¬ 
fortunately  circumstanced  as  he  is  now,  it  may  be 
nonsense  to  appear  to  doubt;  I  only  wish  it  were 
more  valuable. — It  is  a  rectory,  but  a  small  one; 
the  late  incumbent,  I  believe,  did  not  make  more 
than  200  pounds  per  annum,  and  though  it  is 
certainly  capable  of  improvement,  I  fear,  not  to 
such  an  amount  as  to  afford  him  a  very  comfort¬ 
able  income.  Such  as  it  is,  however,  my  pleasure 
in  presenting  him  to  it  will  be  very  great.  Pray 
assure  him  of  it.” 

Elinor’s  astonishment  at  this  commission  could 
hardly  have  been  greater,  had  the  Colonel  been 
really  making  her  an  offer  of  his  hand.  The  pre¬ 
ferment,  which  only  two  days  before  she  had  con¬ 
sidered  as  hopeless  for  Edward,  was  already  pro¬ 
vided  to  enable  him  to  marry; — and  she ,  of  all 
people  in  the  world,  was  fixed  on  to  bestow  it! — 
Her  emotion  was  such  as  Mrs  Jennings  had  at¬ 
tributed  to  a  very  different  cause; — but  what¬ 
ever  minor  feelings  less  pure,  less  pleasing,  might 
[162] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


have  a  share  in  that  emotion,  her  esteem  for  the 
general  benevolence,  and  her  gratitude  for  the 
particular  friendship,  which  together  prompted 
Colonel  Brandon  to  this  act,  were  strongly  felt, 
and  warmly  expressed.  She  thanked  him  for  it 
with  all  her  heart,  spoke  of  Edward’s  principles 
and  disposition  with  that  praise  which  she  knew 
them  to  deserve,  and  promised  to  undertake  the 
commission  with  pleasure,  if  it  were  really  his 
wish  to  put  off  so  agreeable  an  office  to  another. 
But,  at  the  same  time,  she  could  not  help  think¬ 
ing  that  no  one  could  so  well  perform  it  as  him¬ 
self.  It  was  an  office,  in  short,  from  which,  un¬ 
willing  to  give  Edward  the  pain  of  receiving  an 
obligation  from  her ,  she  would  have  been  very 
glad  to  be  spared  herself ; — but  Colonel  Brandon, 
on  motives  of  equal  delicacy  declining  it  likewise, 
still  seemed  so  desirous  of  its  being  given  through 
her  means,  that  she  would  not  on  any  account 
make  farther  opposition.  Edward,  she  believed, 
was  still  in  town,  and  fortunately  she  had  heard 
his  address  from  Miss  Steele.  She  could  under¬ 
take  therefore  to  inform  him  of  it  in  the  course 
of  the  day.  After  this  had  been  settled,  Colonel 
Brandon  began  to  talk  of  his  own  advantage  in 
securing  so  respectable  and  agreeable  a  neigh¬ 
bour;  and  then  it  was  that  he  mentioned  with 
regret,  that  the  house  was  small  and  indifferent; 
— an  evil  which  Elinor,  as  Mrs  Jennings  had  sup- 

[163] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


posed  her  to  do,  made  very  light  of,  at  least  as 
far  as  regarded  its  size. 

“The  smallness  of  the  house,”  said  she,  “I  can¬ 
not  imagine  any  inconvenience  to  them,  for  it  will 
be  in  proportion  to  their  family  and  income.” 

By  which  the  Colonel  was  surprised  to  find  that 
she  was  considering  their  marriage  as  the  certain 
consequence  of  the  presentation;  for  he  did  not 
suppose  it  possible  that  Delaford  living  could 
supply  such  an  income  as  anybody  in  his  style  of 
life  would  venture  to  settle  on — and  he  said  so. 

“This  little  rectory  can  do  no  more  than  make 
Mr  Ferrars  comfortable  as  a  bachelor;  it  cannot 
enable  him  to  marry.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  my 
patronage  ends  with  this;  and  my  interest  is 
hardly  more  extensive.  If,  however,  by  any  un¬ 
foreseen  chance  it  should  be  in  my  power  to  serve 
him  farther,  I  must  think  very  differently  of  him 
from  what  I  now  do,  if  I  am  not  as  ready  to  be 
useful  to  him  then,  as  I  sincerely  wish  I  could  be 
at  present.  What  I  am  now  doing  indeed  seems 
nothing  at  all,  since  it  can  advance  him  so  little 
towards  what  must  be  his  principal,  his  only  ob¬ 
ject  of  happiness.  His  marriage  must  still  be  a 
distant  good; — at  least  I  am  afraid  it  cannot  take 
place  very  soon.” 

Such  was  the  sentence  which,  when  misunder¬ 
stood,  so  justly  offended  the  delicate  feelings  of 
Mrs  Jennings;  but  after  this  narration  of  what 
[164] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


really  passed  between  Colonel  Brandon  and  Eli¬ 
nor,  while  they  stood  at  the  window,  the  gratitude 
expressed  by  the  latter  on  their  parting  may  per¬ 
haps  appear,  in  general,  not  less  reasonably  ex¬ 
cited,  nor  less  properly  worded,  than  if  it  had 
arisen  from  an  offer  of  marriage. 


CHAPTER  XL 


ELL,  Miss  Dash  wood,”  said  Mrs  Jen¬ 
nings,  sagaciously  smiling,  as  soon 
as  the  gentleman  had  withdrawn,  “I 


do  not  ask  you  what  the  Colonel  has  been  saying 
to  you;  for  though,  upon  my  honour,  I  tried  to 
keep  out  of  hearing,  I  could  not  help  catching 
enough  to  understand  his  business.  And  I  assure 
you  I  never  was  better  pleased  in  my  life,  and  I 
wish  you  joy  of  it  with  all  my  heart.” 

“Thank  you,  ma’am,”  said  Elinor.  “It  is  a 
matter  of  great  joy  to  me;  and  I  feel  the  good¬ 
ness  of  Colonel  Brandon  most  sensibly.  There 
are  not  many  men  who  would  act  as  he  has  done. 
Few  people  have  so  compassionate  a  heart!  I 
never  was  more  astonished  in  my  life.” 

“Lord!  my  dear,  you  are  very  modest!  I  an’t 
the  least  astonished  at  it  in  the  world,  for  I  have 
often  thought,  of  late,  there  was  nothing  more 
likely  to  happen.” 


[165] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“You  judged  from  your  knowledge  of  the 
Colonel’s  general  benevolence;  but  at  least  you 
could  not  foresee  that  the  opportunity  would  so 
very  soon  occur.” 

“Opportunity!”  repeated  Mrs  Jennings — 
“Oh!  as  to  that,  when  a  man  has  once  made  up 
his  mind  to  such  a  thing,  somehow  or  other  he 
will  soon  find  an  opportunity.  Well,  my  dear,  I 
wish  you  joy  of  it  again  and  again;  and  if  ever 
there  was  a  happy  couple  in  the  world,  I  think  I 
shall  soon  know  where  to  look  for  them.” 

“You  mean  to  go  to  Delaford  after  them,  I 
suppose,”  said  Elinor,  with  a  faint  smile. 

“Aye,  my  dear,  that  I  do,  indeed.  And  as  to 
the  house  being  a  bad  one,  I  do  not  know  what 
the  Colonel  would  be  at,  for  it  is  as  good  a  one  as 
ever  I  saw.” 

“He  spoke  of  its  being  out  of  repair.” 

“Well,  and  whose  fault  is  that?  why  don’t  he 
repair  it? — who  should  do  it  but  himself?” 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  servant’s  coming 
in,  to  announce  the  carriage  being  at  the  door; 
and  Mrs  Jennings,  immediately  preparing  to  go, 
said — 

“Well,  my  dear,  I  must  be  gone  before  I  have 
had  half  my  talk  out.  But,  however,  we  may 
have  it  all  over  in  the  evening,  for  we  shall  be 
quite  alone.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  go  with  me,  for 
I  dare  say  your  mind  is  too  full  of  the  matter  to 
[166] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


care  for  company;  and  besides,  you  must  long  to 
tell  your  sister  all  about  it.” 

Marianne  had  left  the  room  before  the  conver¬ 
sation  began. 

“Certainly,  ma’am,  I  shall  tell  Marianne  of  it; 
but  I  shall  not  mention  it  at  present  to  anybody 
else.” 

“Oh!  very  well,”  said  Mrs  Jennings,  rather  dis¬ 
appointed.  “Then  you  would  not  have  me  tell 
it  Lucy,  for  I  think  of  going  as  far  as  Holborn 
to-day.” 

“No,  ma’am,  not  even  Lucy,  if  you  please. 
One  day’s  delay  will  not  be  very  material ;  and  till 
I  have  written  to  Mr  E errars,  I  think  it  ought  not 
to  be  mentioned  to  anybody  else.  I  shall  do  that 
directly.  It  is  of  importance  that  no  time  should 
be  lost  with  him,  for  he  will,  of  course,  have  much 
to  do  relative  to  his  ordination.” 

This  speech  at  first  puzzled  Mrs  Jennings  ex¬ 
ceedingly.  Why  Mr  F errars  was  to  be  written  to 
about  it  in  such  a  hurry  she  could  not  immedi¬ 
ately  comprehend.  A  few  moments’  reflection, 
however,  produced  a  very  happy  idea,  and  she 
exclaimed — 

“Oh  ho!  I  understand  you.  Mr  Ferrars  is  to 
be  the  man.  Well,  so  much  the  better  for  him. 
Aye,  to  be  sure,  he  must  be  ordained  in  readiness ; 
and  I  am  very  glad  to  find  things  are  so  forward 
between  you.  But,  my  dear,  is  not  this  rather 

[167] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


out  of  character?  Should  not  the  Colonel  write 
himself?  Sure,  he  is  the  proper  person.” 

Elinor  did  not  quite  understand  the  beginning 
of  Mrs  Jennings’s  speech;  neither  did  she  think 
it  worth  inquiring  into;  and  therefore  only 
replied  to  its  conclusion. 

“Colonel  Brandon  is  so  delicate  a  man,  that  he 
rather  wished  any  one  to  announce  his  intentions 
to  Mr  Ferrars  than  himself.” 

“And  so  you  are  forced  to  do  it.  Well,  that  is 
an  odd  kind  of  delicacy!  However,  I  will  not 
disturb  you”  (seeing  her  prepare  to  write) .  “You 
know  your  own  concerns  best.  So  good-bye,  my 
dear.  I  have  not  heard  of  anything  to  please  me 
so  well  since  Charlotte  was  brought  to  bed.” 

And  away  she  went,  but  returning  again  in  a 
moment — 

“I  have  just  been  thinking  of  Betty’s  sister,  my 
dear.  I  should  be  very  glad  to  get  her  so  good 
a  mistress.  But  whether  she  would  do  for  a  lady’s 
maid,  I  am  sure  I  can’t  tell.  She  is  an  excellent 
housemaid,  and  works  very  well  at  her  needle. 
However,  you  will  think  of  all  that  at  your 
leisure.” 

“Certainly,  ma’am,”  replied  Elinor,  not  hear¬ 
ing  much  of  what  she  said,  and  more  anxious  to 
be  alone  than  to  be  mistress  of  the  subject. 

How  she  should  begin — how  she  should  express 
herself  in  her  note  to  Edward  was  now  all  her 
[168] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


concern.  The  particular  circumstances  between 
them  made  a  difficulty  of  that  which  to  any  other 
person  would  have  been  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world;  but  she  equally  feared  to  say  too  much  or 
too  little,  and  sat  deliberating  over  her  paper, 
with  the  pen  in  her  hand,  till  broken  in  on  by  the 
entrance  of  Edward  himself. 

He  had  met  Mrs  Jennings  at  the  door  in  her 
way  to  the  carriage,  as  he  came  to  leave  his  fare¬ 
well  card;  and  she,  after  apologising  for  not  re¬ 
turning  herself,  had  obliged  him  to  enter  by  say¬ 
ing  that  Miss  Dashwood  was  above,  and  wanted 
to  speak  with  him  on  very  particular  business. 

Elinor  had  just  been  congratulating  herself  in 
the  midst  of  her  perplexity,  that  however  difficult 
it  might  be  to  express  herself  properly  by  letter, 
it  was  at  least  preferable  to  giving  the  informa¬ 
tion  by  word  of  mouth,  when  her  visitor  entered, 
to  force  her  upon  this  greatest  exertion  of  all. 
Her  astonishment  and  confusion  were  very  great 
on  his  so  sudden  appearance.  She  had  not  seen 
him  before  since  his  engagement  became  public, 
and  therefore  not  since  his  knowing  her  to  be 
acquainted  with  it;  which,  with  the  consciousness 
of  what  she  had  been  thinking  of,  and  what  she 
had  to  tell  him,  made  her  feel  particularly  uncom¬ 
fortable  for  some  minutes.  He  too  was  much 
distressed,  and  they  sat  down  together  in  a  most 
promising  state  of  embarrassment. — Whether  he 

[169] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


had  asked  her  pardon  for  his  intrusion  on  first 
coming  into  the  room,  he  could  not  recollect ;  but 
determining  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  he  made  his 
apology  in  form  as  soon  as  he  could  say  anything, 
after  taking  a  chair. 

“Mrs  Jennings  told  me,”  said  he,  “that  you 
wished  to  speak  with  me,  at  least  I  understood  her 
so — or  I  certainly  should  not  have  intruded  on 
you  in  such  a  manner;  though,  at  the  same  time, 
I  should  have  been  extremely  sorry  to  leave  Lon¬ 
don  without  seeing  you  and  your  sister ;  especially 
as  it  will  most  likely  be  some  time — it  is  not  prob¬ 
able  that  I  should  soon  have  the  pleasure  of  meet¬ 
ing  you  again.  I  go  to  Oxford  to-morrow.” 

“You  would  not  have  gone,  however,”  said  Eli¬ 
nor,  recovering  herself,  and  determined  to  get 
over  what  she  so  much  dreaded  as  soon  as  possible, 
“without  receiving  our  good  wishes,  even  if  we 
had  not  been  able  to  give  them  in  person.  Mrs 
Jennings  was  quite  right  in  what  she  said.  I  have 
something  of  consequence  to  inform  you  of, 
which  I  was  on  the  point  of  communicating  by 
paper.  I  am  charged  with  a  most  agreeable 
office”  (breathing  rather  faster  than  usual  as  she 
spoke) .  “Colonel  Brandon,  who  was  here  only 
ten  minutes  ago,  has  desired  me  to  say,  that, 
understanding  you  mean  to  take  orders,  he  has 
great  pleasure  in  off  ering  you  the  living  of  Dela- 
ford,  now  just  vacant,  and  only  wishes  it  were 
[170] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


more  valuable.  Allow  me  to  congratulate  you  on 
having  so  respectable  and  well- judging  a  friend, 
and  to  join  in  his  wish  that  the  living — it  is  about 
two  hundred  a-year — were  much  more  consider¬ 
able,  and  such  as  might  better  enable  you  to — as 
might  be  more  than  a  temporary  accommodation 
to  yourself — such,  in  short,  as  might  establish  all 
your  views  of  happiness.” 

What  Edward  felt,  as  he  could  not  say  it  him¬ 
self,  it  cannot  be  expected  that  any  one  else  should 
say  it  for  him.  He  looked  all  the  astonishment 
which  such  unexpected,  such  unthought-of  infor¬ 
mation  could  not  fail  of  exciting;  but  he  said  only 
these  two  words — 

“Colonel  Brandon!” 

“Yes,”  continued  Elinor,  gathering  more  reso¬ 
lution,  as  some  of  the  worst  was  over;  “Colonel 
Brandon  means  it  as  a  testimony  of  his  concern 
for  what  has  lately  passed — for  the  cruel  situation 
in  which  the  unjustifiable  conduct  of  your  family 
has  placed  you — a  concern  which,  I  am  sure, 
Marianne,  myself,  and  all  your  friends  must 
share;  and  likewise  as  a  proof  of  his  high  esteem 
for  your  general  character,  and  his  particular 
approbation  of  your  behaviour  on  the  present 
occasion.” 

“Colonel  Brandon  give  me  a  living! — Can  it  be 
possible?” 

“The  unkindness  of  your  own  relations  has 

[171] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

made  you  astonished  to  find  friendship  any¬ 
where.” 

“No,”  replied  he,  with  sudden  consciousness, 
“not  to  find  it  in  you ;  for  I  cannot  be  ignorant 
that  to  you,  to  your  goodness,  I  owe  it  all.  I  feel 
it — I  would  express  it  if  I  could — but,  as  you  well 
know,  I  am  no  orator.” 

“You  are  very  much  mistaken.  I  do  assure 
you  that  you  owe  it  entirely,  at  least  almost  en¬ 
tirely,  to  your  own  merit,  and  Colonel  Brandon’s 
discernment  of  it.  I  have  had  no  hand  in  it.  I 
did  not  even  know,  till  I  understood  his  design, 
that  the  living  was  vacant;  nor  had  it  ever  oc¬ 
curred  to  me  that  he  might  have  such  a  living  in 
his  gift.  As  a  friend  of  mine,  of  my  family,  he 
may  perhaps — indeed  I  know  he  has ,  still  greater 
pleasure  in  bestowing  it ;  but,  upon  my  word,  you 
owe  nothing  to  my  solicitation.” 

Truth  obliged  her  to  acknowledge  some  small 
share  in  the  action;  but  she  was  at  the  same  time 
so  unwilling  to  appear  as  the  benefactress  of 
Edward,  that  she  acknowledged  it  with  hesita¬ 
tion;  which  probably  contributed  to  fix  that  sus¬ 
picion  in  his  mind  which  had  recently  entered  it. 
For  a  short  time  he  sat  deep  in  thought,  after 
Elinor  had  ceased  to  speak;  at  last,  as  if  it  were 
rather  an  eff  ort,  he  said — 

“Colonel  Brandon  seems  a  man  of  great  worth 
and  respectability.  I  have  always  heard  him 
[172] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


spoken  of  as  such,  and  your  brother,  I  know, 
esteems  him  highly.  He  is  undoubtedly  a  sen¬ 
sible  man,  and  in  his  manners  perfectly  the  gen¬ 
tleman.” 

“Indeed,”  replied  Elinor,  “I  believe  that  you 
will  find  him,  on  farther  acquaintance,  all  that 
you  have  heard  him  to  be ;  and  as  you  will  be  such 
very  near  neighbours  ( for  I  understand  the  par¬ 
sonage  is  almost  close  to  the  mansion-house),  it 
is  particularly  important  that  he  should  be  all 
this.” 

Edward  made  no  answer;  but  when  she  had 
turned  away  her  head,  gave  her  a  look  so  serious, 
so  earnest,  so  uncheerful,  as  seemed  to  say,  that 
he  might  hereafter  wish  the  distance  between  the 
parsonage  and  the  mansion-house  much  greater. 

“Colonel  Brandon,  I  think,  lodges  in  St. 
James’s-street,”  said  he,  soon  afterwards,  rising 
from  his  chair. 

Elinor  told  him  the  number  of  the  house. 

“I  must  hurry  away  then,  to  give  him  those 
thanks  which  you  will  not  allow  me  to  give  you; 
to  assure  him  that  he  has  made  me  a  very — an 
exceedingly  happy  man.” 

Elinor  did  not  offer  to  detain  him;  and  they 
parted,  with  a  very  earnest  assurance  on  her  side 
of  her  unceasing  good  wishes  for  his  happiness  in 
every  change  of  situation  that  might  befall  him; 
on  his ,  with  rather  an  attempt  to  return  the  same 
good-will,  than  the  power  of  expressing  it. 

[173] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“When  I  see  him  again,”  said  Elinor  to  herself, 
as  the  door  shut  him  out,  “I  shall  see  him  the  hus¬ 
band  of  Lucy.” 

And  with  this  pleasing  anticipation,  she  sat 
down  to  reconsider  the  past,  recall  the  words,  and 
endeavour  to  comprehend  all  the  feelings  of 
Edward;  and,  of  course,  to  reflect  on  her  own 
with  discontent. 

When  Mrs  Jennings  came  home,  though  she 
returned  from  seeing  people  whom  she  had  never 
seen  before,  and  of  whom  therefore  she  must  have 
a  great  deal  to  say,  her  mind  was  so  much  more 
occupied  by  the  important  secret  in  her  posses¬ 
sion,  than  by  anything  else,  that  she  reverted  to  it 
again  as  soon  as  Elinor  appeared. 

“Well,  my  dear,”  she  cried,  “I  sent  you  up  the 
young  man.  Did  not  I  do  right? — And  I  sup¬ 
pose  you  had  no  great  difficulty. — You  did  not 
find  him  very  unwilling  to  accept  your  proposal?” 

“No,  ma’am;  that  was  not  very  likely.” 

“Well,  and  how  soon  will  he  be  ready? — For  it 
seems  all  to  depend  upon  that.” 

“Really,”  said  Elinor,  “I  know  so  little  of  these 
kind  of  forms,  that  I  can  hardly  even  conjecture 
as  to  the  time,  or  the  preparation  necessary ;  but  I 
suppose  two  or  three  months  will  complete  his 
ordination.” 

“Two  or  three  months?”  cried  Mrs  Jennings; 

‘Lord!  my  dear,  how  calmly  you  talk  of  it!  and 
[174] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


can  the  Colonel  wait  two  or  three  months !  Lord 
bless  me! — I  am  sure  it  would  put  me  quite  out 
of  patience. — And  though  one  would  be  very 
glad  to  do  a  kindness  by  poor  Mr  Ferrars,  I  do 
think  it  is  not  worth  while  to  wait  two  or  three 
months  for  him.  Sure,  somebody  else  might  be 
found  that  would  do  as  well — somebody  that  is  in 
orders  already.” 

“My  dear  ma’am,”  said  Elinor,  “what  can  you 
be  thinking  of? — Why,  Colonel  Brandon’s  only 
object  is  to  be  of  use  to  Mr  Ferrars.” 

“Lord  bless  you,  my  dear! — Sure  you  do  not 
mean  to  persuade  me  that  the  Colonel  only  mar¬ 
ries  you  for  the  sake  of  giving  ten  guineas  to 
Mr  Ferrars!” 

The  deception  could  not  continue  after  this; 
and  an  explanation  immediately  took  place,  by 
which  both  gained  considerable  amusement  for 
the  moment,  without  any  material  loss  of  happi¬ 
ness  to  either,  for  Mrs  Jennings  only  exchanged 
one  form  of  delight  for  another,  and  still  without 
forfeiting  her  expectation  of  the  first. 

“Aye,  aye,  the  parsonage  is  but  a  small  one,” 
said  she,  after  the  first  ebullition  of  surprise  and 
satisfaction  was  over,  “and  very  likely  may  be  out 
of  repair;  but  to  hear  a  man  apologising,  as  I 
thought,  for  a  house  that  to  my  knowledge  has 
five  sitting-rooms  on  the  ground-floor,  and,  I 
think  the  house-keeper  told  me,  could  make  up 

[175] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


fifteen  beds ! — And  to  you  too,  that  had  been  used 
to  live  in  Barton  Cottage !  It  seemed  quite  ridicu¬ 
lous. — But,  my  dear,  we  must  touch  up  the 
Colonel  to  do  something  to  the  parsonage,  and 
make  it  comfortable  for  them,  before  Lucy  goes 
to  it.” 

“But  Colonel  Brandon  does  not  seem  to  have 
any  idea  of  the  living’s  being  enough  to  allow 
them  to  marry.” 

“The  Colonel  is  a  ninny,  my  dear;  because  he 
has  two  thousand  a-year  himself,  he  thinks  that 
nobody  else  can  marry  on  less.  Take  my  word 
for  it,  that,  if  I  am  alive,  I  shall  be  paying  a  visit 
at  Delaford  Parsonage  before  Michaelmas;  and 
I  am  sure  I  shan’t  go  if  Lucy  an’t  there.” 

Elinor  was  quite  of  her  opinion,  as  to  the  prob¬ 
ability  of  their  not  waiting  for  anything  more. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

EDWARD  having  carried  his  thanks  to 
Colonel  Brandon,  proceeded  with  his  hap¬ 
piness  to  Lucy;  and  such  was  the  excess 
of  it  by  the  time  he  reached  Bartlett’s  Buildings, 
that  she  was  able  to  assure  Mrs  Jennings,  who 
called  on  her  again  the  next  day  with  her  con¬ 
gratulations,  that  she  had  never  seen  him  in  such 
spirits  before  in  her  life. 

[176] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Her  own  happiness,  and  her  own  spirits,  were 
at  least  very  certain;  and  she  joined  Mrs  Jen¬ 
nings  most  heartily  in  her  expectation  of  their 
being  all  comfortably  together  in  Delaford  Par¬ 
sonage  before  Michaelmas.  So  far  was  she,  at 
the  same  time,  from  any  backwardness  to  give 
Elinor  that  credit  which  Edward  would  give  her, 
that  she  spoke  of  her  friendship  for  them  both 
with  the  most  grateful  warmth,  was  ready  to  own 
all  their  obligation  to  her,  and  openly  declared 
that  no  exertion  for  their  good  on  Miss  Dash- 
wood’s  part,  either  present  or  future,  would  ever 
surprise  her,  for  she  believed  her  capable  of  doing 
anything  in  the  world  for  those  she  really  valued. 
As  for  Colonel  Brandon,  she  was  not  only  ready 
to  worship  him  as  a  saint,  but  was  moreover  truly 
anxious  that  he  should  be  treated  as  one  in  all 
worldly  concerns;  anxious  that  his  tithes  should 
be  raised  to  the  utmost;  and  secretly  resolved  to 
avail  herself  at  Delaford,  as  far  as  she  possibly 
could,  of  his  servants,  his  carriage,  his  cows,  and 
his  poultry. 

It  was  now  above  a  week  since  John  Dashwood 
had  called  in  Berkeley-street,  and  as  since  that 
time  no  notice  had  been  taken  by  them  of  his 
wife’s  indisposition,  beyond  one  verbal  inquiry, 
Elinor  began  to  feel  it  necessary  to  pay  her  a 
visit. — This  was  an  obligation,  however,  which 
not  only  opposed  her  own  inclination,  but  which 

cm] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

had  not  the  assistance  of  any  encouragement 
from  her  companions.  Marianne,  not  contented 
with  absolutely  refusing  to  go  herself,  was  very 
urgent  to  prevent  her  sister’s  going  at  all;  and 
Mrs  Jennings,  though  her  carriage  was  always  at 
Elinor’s  service,  so  very  much  disliked  Mrs  J ohn 
Dashwood,  that  not  even  her  curiosity,  to  see  how 
she  looked  after  the  late  discovery,  nor  her  strong 
desire  to  affront  her  by  taking  Edward’s  part, 
could  overcome  her  unwillingness  to  be  in  her 
company  again.  The  consequence  was,  that  Eli¬ 
nor  set  out  by  herself  to  pay  a  visit,  for  which  no 
one  could  really  have  less  inclination,  and  to  run 
the  risk  of  a  tete-a-tete  with  a  woman  whom 
neither  of  the  others  had  so  much  reason  to  dis¬ 
like. 

Mrs  Dashwood  was  denied;  but  before  the  car¬ 
riage  could  turn  from  the  house,  her  husband  ac¬ 
cidentally  came  out.  He  expressed  great  pleas¬ 
ure  in  meeting  Elinor,  told  her  that  he  had  been 
just  going  to  call  in  Berkeley-street,  and  assur¬ 
ing  her  that  F anny  would  be  very  glad  to  see  her, 
invited  her  to  come  in. 

They  walked  up  stairs  into  the  drawing-room. 
— Nobody  was  there. 

“Fanny  is  in  her  own  room,  I  suppose,”  said 
he; — “I  will  go  to  her  presently,  for  I  am  sure 
she  will  not  have  the  least  objection  in  the  world 
to  seeing  you — very  far  from  it  indeed.  Now 
[178] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


especially  there  cannot  be — but  however,  you  and 
Marianne  were  always  great  favourites. — Why 
would  not  Marianne  come?” 

Elinor  made  what  excuse  she  could  for  her. 

“I  am  not  sorry  to  see  you  alone,”  he  replied, 
4 ‘for  I  have  a  good  deal  to  say  to  you.  This  living 
of  Colonel  Brandon’s — can  it  be  true? — has  he 
really  given  it  to  Edward? — I  heard  it  yesterday 
by  chance,  and  was  coming  to  you  on  purpose  to 
inquire  farther  about  it.” 

“It  is  perfectly  true. — Colonel  Brandon  has 
given  the  living  of  Delaford  to  Edward.” 

“Really! — Well,  this  is  very  astonishing! — no 
relationship! — no  connection  between  them! — 
and  now  that  livings  fetch  such  a  price! — what 
was  the  value  of  this?” 

“About  two  hundred  a-year.” 

“Very  well — and  for  the  next  presentation  to 
a  living  of  that  value — supposing  the  late  incum¬ 
bent  to  have  been  old  and  sickly  and  likely  to 
vacate  it  soon — he  might  have  got,  I  dare  say — 
fourteen  hundred  pounds.  And  how  came  he  not 
to  have  settled  that  matter  before  this  person’s 
death? — Now  indeed  it  would  be  too  late  to  sell 
it,  but  a  man  of  Colonel  Brandon’s  sense! — I 
wonder  he  should  be  so  improvident  in  a  point  of 
such  common,  such  natural  concern! — Well,  I  am 
convinced  that  there  is  a  vast  deal  of  inconsist¬ 
ency  in  almost  every  human  character.  I  sup- 

[179] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


pose,  however — on  recollection — that  the  case 
may  probably  be  this.  Edward  is  only  to  hold 
the  living  till  the  person  to  whom  the  Colonel  has 
really  sold  the  presentation  is  old  enough  to  take 
it. — Aye,  aye,  that  is  the  fact,  depend  upon  it.” 

Elinor  contradicted  it,  however,  very  posi¬ 
tively;  and  by  relating  that  she  had  herself  been 
employed  in  conveying  the  offer  from  Colonel 
Brandon  to  Edward,  and  therefore  must  under¬ 
stand  the  terms  on  which  it  was  given,  obliged 
him  to  submit  to  her  authority. 

“It  is  truly  astonishing!” — he  cried,  after  hear¬ 
ing  what  she  said — “what  could  be  the  Colonel’s 
motive?” 

“A  very  simple  one — to  be  of  use  to  Mr  Fer- 
rars.” 

“Well,  well;  whatever  Colonel  Brandon  may 
be,  Edward  is  a  very  lucky  man!  You  will  not 
mention  the  matter  to  Fanny,  however;  for 
though  I  have  broke  it  to  her,  and  she  bears  it 
vastly  well,  she  will  not  like  to  hear  it  much 
talked  of.” 

Elinor  had  some  difficulty  here  to  refrain  from 
observing,  that  she  thought  Fanny  might  have 
borne  with  composure  an  acquisition  of  wealth  to 
her  brother,  by  which  neither  she  nor  her  child 
could  be  possibly  impoverished. 

“Mrs  Ferrars,”  added  he,  lowering  his  voice  to 
the  tone  becoming  so  important  a  subject,  “knows 
[180] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


nothing  about  it  at  present,  and  I  believe  it  will 
be  best  to  keep  it  entirely  concealed  from  her  as 
long  as  may  be. — When  the  marriage  takes  place, 
I  fear  she  must  hear  of  it  all.” 

“But  why  should  such  precaution  be  used? — 
Though  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Mrs  F ep-ars 
can  have  the  smallest  satisfaction  in  knowing  that 
her  son  has  money  enough  to  live  upon, — for  that 
must  be  quite  out  of  the  question ;  yet  why,  after 
her  late  behaviour,  is  she  supposed  to  feel  at  all? 
She  has  done  with  her  son,  she  has  cast  him  off 
for  ever,  and  has  made  all  those  over  whom  she 
had  any  influence  cast  him  off  likewise.  Surely, 
after  doing  so,  she  cannot  be  imagined  liable  to 
any  impression  of  sorrow  or  of  joy  on  his  account 
— she  cannot  be  interested  in  anything  that  be¬ 
falls  him.  She  would  not  be  so  weak  as  to  throw 
away  the  comfort  of  a  child,  and  yet  retain  the 
anxiety  of  a  parent!” 

“All!  Elinor,”  said  John,  “your  reasoning  is 
very  good,  but  it  is  founded  on  ignorance  of 
human  nature.  When  Edward’s  unhappy  match 
takes  place,  depend  upon  it  his  mother  will  feel 
as  much  as  if  she  had  never  discarded  him;  and 
therefore  every  circumstance  that  may  acceler¬ 
ate  that  dreadful  event,  must  be  concealed  as 
much  as  possible.  Mrs  Ferrars  can  never  forget 
that  Edward  is  her  son.” 

“You  surprise  me;  I  should  think  it  must 
nearly  have  escaped  her  memory  by  this  time.” 

[181] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“You  wrong  her  exceedingly.  Mrs  Ferrars  is 
one  of  the  most  affectionate  mothers  in  the 
world.” 

Elinor  was  silent. 

“We  think  now ,”  said  Mr  Dashwood,  after  a 
short  pause,  “of  Robert's  marrying  Miss  Mor¬ 
ton.” 

Elinor,  smiling  at  the  grave  and  decisive  impor¬ 
tance  of  her  brother’s  tone,  calmly  replied — 

“The  lady,  I  suppose,  has  no  choice  in  the 
affair.” 

“Choice — how  do  you  mean?” 

“I  only  mean,  that  I  suppose  from  your  man¬ 
ner  of  speaking,  it  must  be  the  same  to  Miss  Mor¬ 
ton  whether  she  marry  Edward  or  Robert.” 

“Certainly,  there  can  be  no  difference;  for 
Robert  will  now  to  all  intents  and  purposes  be 
considered  as  the  eldest  son;  and  as  to  anything 
else,  they  are  both  very  agreeable  young  men — I 
do  not  know  that  one  is  superior  to  the  other.” 

Elinor  said  no  more,  and  John  was  also  for  a 
short  time  silent.  His  reflections  ended  thus — 

“Of  one  thing,  my  dear  sister,”  kindly  taking 
her  hand,  and  speaking  in  an  awful  whisper,  “I 
may  assure  you :  and  I  will  do  it,  because  I  know 
it  must  gratify  you.  I  have  good  reason  to  think 
— indeed  I  have  it  from  the  best  authority,  or  I 
should  not  repeat  it,  for  otherwise  it  would  be 
very  wrong  to  say  anything  about  it — but  I  have 
[182] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


it  from  the  very  best  authority — not  that  I  ever 
precisely  heard  Mrs  Ferrars  say  it  herself,  but 
her  daughter  did ,  and  I  have  it  from  her — That, 
in  short,  whatever  objections  there  might  be 
against  a  certain — a  certain  connection — you 
understand  me — it  would  have  been  far  prefer¬ 
able  to  her,  it  would  not  have  given  her  half  the 
vexation  that  this  does.  I  was  exceedingly 
pleased  to  hear  that  Mrs  F errars  considered  it  in 
that  light — a  very  gratifying  circumstance,  you 
know,  to  us  all.  Tt  would  have  been  beyond  com¬ 
parison,’  she  said,  ‘the  least  evil  of  the  two,  and 
she  would  be  glad  to  compound  now  for  nothing 
worse.’  But,  however,  all  that  is  quite  out  of  the 
question — not  to  be  thought  of  or  mentioned;  as 
to  any  attachment,  you  know — it  never  could  be 
— all  that  is  gone  by.  But  I  thought  I  would  just 
tell  you  of  this,  because  I  knew  how  much  it  must 
please  you.  Not  that  you  have  any  reason  to 
regret,  my  dear  Elinor.  There  is  no  doubt  of 
your  doing  exceedingly  well — quite  as  well,  or 
better,  perhaps,  all  things  considered.  Has 
Colonel  Brandon  been  with  you  lately?” 

Elinor  had  heard  enough,  if  not  to  gratify  her 
vanity  and  raise  her  self-importance,  to  agitate 
her  nerves  and  fill  her  mind;  and  she  was  there¬ 
fore  glad  to  be  spared  from  the  necessity  of  say¬ 
ing  much  in  reply  herself,  and  from  the  danger 
of  hearing  anything  more  from  her  brother,  by 

[183] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

the  entrance  of  Mr  Robert  F errars.  After  a  few 
moments’  chat,  John  Dashwood,  recollecting  that 
Fanny  was  yet  uninformed  of  his  sister  being 
there,  quitted  the  room  in  quest  of  her;  and  Eli¬ 
nor  was  left  to  improve  her  acquaintance  with 
Robert,  who,  by  the  gay  unconcern,  the  happy 
self-complacency  of  his  manner  while  enjoying 
so  unfair  a  division  of  his  mother’s  love  and  liber¬ 
ality,  to  the  prejudice  of  his  banished  brother, 
earned  only  by  his  own  dissipated  course  of  life, 
and  that  brother’s  integrity,  was  confirming  her 
most  unfavourable  opinion  of  his  head  and  heart. 

They  had  scarcely  been  two  minutes  by  them¬ 
selves,  before  he  began  to  speak  of  Edward;  for 
he  too  had  heard  of  the  living,  and  was  very  in¬ 
quisitive  on  the  subject.  Elinor  repeated  the  par¬ 
ticulars  of  it,  as  she  had  given  them  to  John,  and 
their  eff  ect  on  Robert,  though  very  diff erent,  was 
not  less  striking  than  it  had  been  on  him.  He 
laughed  most  immoderately.  The  idea  of 
Edward’s  being  a  clergyman,  and  living  in  a 
small  parsonage-house,  diverted  him  beyond 
measure ;  and  when  to  that  was  added  the  fanciful 
imagery  of  Edward  reading  prayers  in  a  white 
surplice,  and  publishing  the  banns  of  marriage 
between  John  Smith  and  Mary  Brown,  he  could 
conceive  nothing  more  ridiculous. 

Elinor,  while  she  waited  in  silence,  and  immov¬ 
able  gravity,  the  conclusion  of  such  folly,  could 
[184] 


LIBRARY 
Of  THE 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


not  restrain  her  eyes  from  being  fixed  on  him 
with  a  look  that  spoke  all  the  contempt  it  excited. 
It  was  a  look,  however,  very  well  bestowed,  for  it 
relieved  her  own  feelings,  and  gave  no  intelli¬ 
gence  to  him.  He  was  called  from  wit  to  wisdom, 
not  by  any  reproof  of  her,  but  by  his  own  sensi¬ 
bility. 

“We  may  treat  it  as  a  joke,”  said  he  at  last, 
recovering  from  the  affected  laugh  which  had 
considerably  lengthened  out  the  genuine  gaiety  of 
the  moment — “but,  upon  my  soul,  it  is  a  most 
serious  business.  Poor  Edward!  he  is  ruined  for 
ever.  I  am  extremely  sorry  for  it — for  I  know 
him  to  be  a  very  good-hearted  creature;  as  well 
meaning  a  fellow,  perhaps,  as  any  in  the  world. 
You  must  not  judge  of  him,  Miss  Dash  wood, 
from  your  slight  acquaintance.  Poor  Edward! 
His  manners  are  certainly  not  the  happiest  in 
nature.  But  we  are  not  all  born,  you  know,  with 
the  same  powers — the  same  address.  Poor  fel¬ 
low!  to  see  him  in  a  circle  of  strangers! — to  be 
sure  it  was  pitiable  enough ! — but,  upon  my  soul, 
I  believe  he  has  as  good  a  heart  as  any  in  the 
kingdom;  and  I  declare  and  protest  to  you  I 
never  was  so  shocked  in  my  life,  as  when  it  all 
burst  forth.  I  could  not  believe  it.  My  mother 
was  the  first  person  who  told  me  of  it,  and  I,  feel¬ 
ing  myself  called  on  to  act  with  resolution,  imme¬ 
diately  said  to  her,  ‘My  dear  madam,  I  do  not 

[185] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


know  what  you  may  intend  to  do  on  the  occasion, 
but  as  for  myself,  I  must  say,  that  if  Edward 
does  marry  this  young  woman,  I  never  will  see 
him  again/  That  was  what  I  said  immediately, 
— I  was  most  uncommonly  shocked  indeed! — 
Poor  Edward! — he  has  done  for  himself  com¬ 
pletely! — shut  himself  out  for  ever  from  all 
decent  society! — but  as  I  directly  said  to  my 
mother,  I  am  not  in  the  least  surprised  at  it;  from 
his  style  of  education  it  was  always  to  be  ex¬ 
pected.  My  poor  mother  was  half  frantic.” 

“Have  you  ever  seen  the  lady?” 

“Yes,  once;  while  she  was  staying  in  this  house. 
I  happened  to  drop  in  for  ten  minutes;  and  I  saw 
quite  enough  of  her.  The  merest  awkward 
country  girl,  without  style  or  elegance,  and 
almost  without  beauty.  I  remember  her  per¬ 
fectly.  Just  the  kind  of  girl  I  should  suppose 
likely  to  captivate  poor  Edward.  I  offered  im¬ 
mediately,  as  soon  as  my  mother  related  the  af¬ 
fair  to  me,  to  talk  to  him  myself,  and  dissuade 
him  from  the  match;  but  it  was  too  late  then ,  I 
found,  to  do  anything,  for  unluckily,  I  was  not 
in  the  way  at  first,  and  knew  nothing  of  it  till 
after  the  breach  had  taken  place,  when  it  was  not 
for  me,  you  know,  to  interfere.  But  had  I  been 
informed  of  it  a  few  hours  earlier,  I  think  it  is 
most  probable  that  something  might  have  been 
hit  on.  I  certainly  should  have  represented  it  to 
[186] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

Edward  in  a  very  strong  light.  ‘My  dear  fellow,’ 
I  should  have  said,  ‘consider  what  you  are  doing. 
You  are  making  a  most  disgraceful  connection, 
and  such  a  one  as  your  family  are  unanimous  in 
disapproving.’  I  cannot  help  thinking,  in  short, 
that  means  might  have  been  found.  But  now  it 
is  all  too  late.  He  must  be  starved,  you  know; 
that  is  certain;  absolutely  starved.” 

He  had  just  settled  this  point  with  great  com¬ 
posure,  when  the  entrance  of  Mrs  John  Dash- 
wood  put  an  end  to  the  subject.  But  though  she 
never  spoke  of  it  out  of  her  own  family,  Elinor 
could  see  its  influence  on  her  mind,  in  the  some¬ 
thing  like  confusion  of  countenance  with  which 
she  entered,  and  an  attempt  at  cordiality  in  her 
behaviour  to  herself.  She  even  proceeded  so  far 
as  to  be  concerned  to  find  that  Elinor  and  her 
sister  were  so  soon  to  leave  town,  as  she  had  hoped 
to  see  more  of  them;  an  exertion  in  which  her 
husband,  who  attended  her  into  the  room,  and 
hung  enamoured  over  her  accents,  seemed  to  dis¬ 
tinguish  everything  that  was  most  affectionate 
and  graceful. 


[187] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


CHAPTER  XLII 

ONE  other  short  call  in  Harley-street,  in 
which  Elinor  received  her  brother’s  con¬ 
gratulations,  on  their  travelling  so  far 
towards  Barton  without  any  expense,  and  on 
Colonel  Brandon’s  being  to  follow  them  to  Cleve¬ 
land  in  a  day  of  two,  completed  the  intercourse  of 
the  brother  and  sisters  in  town;  and  a  faint  invi¬ 
tation  from  Fanny,  to  come  to  Norland  when¬ 
ever  it  should  happen  to  be  in  their  way,  which  of 
all  things  was  the  most  unlikely  to  occur^  with  a 
more  warm,  though  less  public  assurance,  from 
J ohn  to  Elinor  of  the  promptitude  with  which  he 
should  come  to  see  her  at  Delaford,  was  all  that 
foretold  any  meeting  in  the  country. 

It  amused  her  to  observe  that  all  her  friends 
seemed  determined  to  send  her  to  Delaford;  a 
place  in  which,  of  all  others,  she  would  now  least 
chuse  to  visit  or  wish  to  reside;  for  not  only  was 
it  considered  as  her  future  home  by  her  brother 
and  Mrs  Jennings,  but  even  Lucy,  when  they 
parted,  gave  her  a  pressing  invitation  to  visit  her 
there. 

Very  early  in  April,  and  tolerably  early  in  the 
day,  the  two  parties  from  Hanover-square  and 
Berkeley-street,  set  out  from  their  respective 
homes,  to  meet  by  appointment  on  the  road.  For 
[188] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


the  convenience  of  Charlotte  and  her  child,  they 
were  to  be  more  than  two  days  on  their  journey, 
and  Mr  Palmer,  travelling  more  expeditiously 
with  Colonel  Brandon,  was  to  join  them  at  Cleve¬ 
land  soon  after  their  arrival. 

Marianne,  few  as  had  been  her  hours  of  com¬ 
fort  in  London,  and  eager  as  she  had  long  been 
to  quit  it,  could  not,  when  it  came  to  the  point,  bid 
adieu  to  the  house  in  which  she  had  for  the  last 
time  enjoyed  those  hopes  and  that  confidence  in 
Willoughby,  which  were  now  extinguished  for 
ever,  without  great  pain.  Nor  could  she  leave 
the  place  in  which  Willoughby  remained  busy  in 
new  engagements,  and  new  schemes,  in  which  she 
could  have  no  share,  without  shedding  many 
tears. 

Elinor’s  satisfaction  at  the  moment  of  removal, 
was  more  positive.  She  had  no  such  object  for 
her  lingering  thoughts  to  fix  on,  she  left  no 
creature  behind  from  whom  it  would  give  her  a 
moment’s  regret  to  be  divided  for  ever,  she  was 
pleased  to  be  free  herself  from  the  persecution  of 
Lucy’s  friendship,  she  was  grateful  for  bringing 
her  sister  away  unseen  by  Willoughby  since  his 
marriage,  and  she  looked  forward  with  hope  to 
what  a  few  months  of  tranquillity  at  Barton 
might  do  towards  restoring  Marianne’s  peace  of 
mind,  and  confirming  her  own. 

Their  journey  was  safely  performed.  The 

[189] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

second  day  brought  them  into  the  cherished,  or 
the  prohibited  county  of  Somerset,  for  as  such 
was  it  dwelt  on  by  turns  in  Marianne’s  imagina¬ 
tion;  and  in  the  forenoon  of  the  third  they  drove 
up  to  Cleveland. 

Cleveland  was  a  spacious,  modern-built  house, 
situated  on  a  sloping  lawn.  It  had  no  park,  but 
the  pleasure-grounds  were  tolerably  extensive; 
and  like  every  other  place  of  the  same  degree  of 
importance,  it  had  its  open  shrubbery,  and  closer 
wood- walk;  a  road  of  smooth  gravel  winding 
round  a  plantation,  led  to  the  front;  the  lawn 
was  dotted  over  with  timber ;  the  house  itself  was 
under  the  guardianship  of  the  fir,  the  mountain- 
ash,  and  the  acacia,  and  a  thick  screen  of  them 
altogether,  interspersed  with  tall  Lombardy  pop¬ 
lars,  shut  out  the  offices. 

Marianne  entered  the  house  with  an  heart 
swelling  with  emotion  from  the  consciousness  of 
being  only  eighty  miles  from  Barton,  and  not 
thirty  from  Combe  Magna;  and  before  she  had 
been  five  minutes  within  its  walls,  while  the  others 
were  busily  helping  Charlotte  shew  her  child  to 
the  house-keeper,  she  quitted  it  again,  stealing 
away  through  the  winding  shrubberies,  now  just 
beginning  to  be  in  beauty,  to  gain  a  distant 
eminence;  where,  from  its  Grecian  temple,  her 
eye,  wandering  over  a  wide  tract  of  country  to  the 
south-east,  could  fondly  rest  on  the  farthest  ridge 
[190] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


1 


of  hills  in  the  horizon,  and  fancy  that  from  their 
summits  Combe  Magna  might  be  seen. 

In  such  moments  of  precious,  of  invaluable 
misery,  she  rejoiced  in  tears  of  agony  to  be  at 
Cleveland;  and  as  she  returned  by  a  different 
circuit  to  the  house,  feeling  all  the  happy  privi¬ 
lege  of  country  liberty,  of  wandering  from  place 
to  place  in  free  and  luxurious  solitude,  she  re¬ 
solved  to  spend  almost  every  hour  of  every  day 
while  she  remained  with  the  Palmers,  in  the  in¬ 
dulgence  of  such  solitary  rambles. 

She  returned  just  in  time  to  join  the  others  as 
they  quitted  the  house,  on  an  excursion  through 
its  more  immediate  premises;  and  the  rest  of  the 
morning  was  easily  whiled  away,  in  lounging 
round  the  kitchen  garden,  examining  the  bloom 
upon  its  walls,  and  listening  to  the  gardener’s 
lamentations  upon  blights, — in  dawdling  through 
the  green-house,  where  the  loss  of  her  favourite 
plants,  unwarily  exposed,  and  nipped  by  the  lin¬ 
gering  frost,  raised  the  laughter  of  Charlotte, 
— and  in  visiting  her  poultry-yard,  where  in  the 
disappointed  hopes  of  her  dairy-maid,  by  hens 
forsaking  their  nests,  or  being  stolen  by  a  fox,  or 
in  the  rapid  decease  of  a  promising  young  brood, 
she  found  fresh  sources  of  merriment. 

The  morning  was  fine  and  dry,  and  Marianne, 
in  her  plan  of  employment  abroad,  had  not  cal¬ 
culated  for  any  change  of  weather  during  their 

[191] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


stay  at  Cleveland.  With  great  surprise,  there¬ 
fore,  did  she  find  herself  prevented  by  a  settled 
rain  from  going  out  again  after  dinner.  She  had 
depended  on  a  twilight  walk  to  the  Grecian 
temple,  and  perhaps  all  over  the  grounds,  and  an 
evening  merely  cold  or  damp  would  not  have 
deterred  her  from  it;  but  a  heavy  and  settled  rain 
even  she  could  not  fancy  dry  or  pleasant  weather 
for  walking. 

Their  party  was  small,  and  the  hours  passed 
quietly  away.  Mrs  Palmer  had  her  child,  and 
Mrs  Jennings  her  carpet-work;  they  talked  of 
the  friends  they  had  left  behind,  arranged  Lady 
Middleton’s  engagements,  and  wondered  whether 
Mr  Palmer  and  Colonel  Brandon  would  get 
farther  than  Reading  that  night.  Elinor,  how¬ 
ever  little  concerned  in  it,  joined  in  their  dis¬ 
course,  and  Marianne,  who  had  the  knack  of  find¬ 
ing  her  way  in  every  house  to  the  library,  however 
it  might  be  avoided  by  the  family  in  general,  sbon 
procured  herself  a  book. 

Nothing  was  wanting  on  Mrs  Palmer’s  side, 
that  constant  and  friendly  good  humour  could 
do,  to  make  them  feel  themselves  welcome.  The 
openness  and  heartiness  of  her  manner  more  than 
atoned  f  or  that  want  of  recollection  and  elegance, 
which  made  her  often  deficient  in  the  forms  of 
politeness;  her  kindness,  recommended  by  so 
pretty  a  face,  was  engaging;  her  folly,  though 
[192] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


evident,  was  not  disgusting  because  it  was  not 
conceited;  and  Elinor  could  have  forgiven  every¬ 
thing  but  her  laugh. 

The  two  gentlemen  arrived  the  next  day  to  a 
very  late  dinner,  affording  a  pleasant  enlarge¬ 
ment  of  the  party,  and  a  very  welcome  variety  to 
their  conversation,  which  a  long  morning  of  the 
same  continued  rain  had  reduced  very  low. 

Elinor  had  seen  so  little  of  Mr  Palmer,  and  in 
that  little  had  seen  so  much  variety  in  his  address 
to  her  sister  and  herself,  that  she  knew  not  what 
to  expect  to  find  him  in  his  own  family.  She 
found  him,  however,  perfectly  the  gentleman  in 
his  behaviour  to  all  his  visitors,  and  only  occasion¬ 
ally  rude  to  his  wife  and  her  mother;  she  found 
him  very  capable  of  being  a  pleasant  companion, 
and  only  prevented  from  being  so  always,  by  too 
great  an  aptitude  to  fancy  himself  as  much  supe¬ 
rior  to  people  in  general,  as  he  must  feel  himself 
to  be  to  Mrs  Jennings  and  Charlotte.  For  the 
rest  of  his  character  and  habits,  they  were  marked, 
as  far  as  Elinor  could  perceive,  with  no  traits  at 
at  all  unusual  in  his  sex  and  time  of  lif  e.  He  was 
nice  in  his  eating,  uncertain  in  his  hours;  fond 
of  his  child,  though  affecting  to  slight  it;  and 
idled  away  the  mornings  at  billiards,  which  ought 
to  have  been  devoted  to  business.  She  liked  him, 
however,  upon  the  whole;  much  better  than  she 
had  expected,  and  in  her  heart  was  not  sorry  that 

[193] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

she  could  like  him  no  more ;  not  sorry  to  be  driven 
by  the  observation  of  his  Epicurism,  his  selfish¬ 
ness,  and  his  conceit,  to  rest  with  complacency  on 
the  remembrance  of  Edward’s  generous  temper, 
simple  taste,  and  diffident  feelings. 

Of  Edward,  or  at  least  of  some  of  his  concerns, 
she  now  received  intelligence  from  Colonel  Bran¬ 
don,  who  had  been  into  Dorsetshire  lately;  and 
who,  treating  her  at  once  as  the  disinterested 
friend  of  Mr  Ferrars,  and  the  kind  confidante  of 
himself,  talked  to  her  a  great  deal  of  the  parson¬ 
age  at  Delaford,  described  its  deficiencies,  and 
told  her  what  he  meant  to  do  himself  towards 
removing  them.  His  behaviour  to  her  in  this  as 
well  as  in  every  other  particular,  his  open  pleasure 
in  meeting  her  after  an  absence  of  only  ten  days, 
his  readiness  to  converse  with  her,  and  his  defer¬ 
ence  for  her  opinion,  might  very  well  justify  Mrs 
Jennings’s  persuasion  of  his  attachment,  and 
would  have  been  enough,  perhaps,  had  not  Elinor 
still,  as  from  the  first,  believed  Marianne  his  real 
favourite,  to  make  her  suspect  it  herself.  But  as 
it  was,  such  a  notion  had  scarcely  ever  entered  her 
head,  except  by  Mrs  Jennings’s  suggestion;  and 
she  could  not  help  believing  herself  the  nicest 
observer  of  the  two;  she  watched  his  eyes,  while 
Mrs  J ennings  thought  only  of  his  behaviour;  and 
while  his  looks  of  anxious  solicitude  on  Mari¬ 
anne’s  feeling  in  her  head  and  throat  the  begin- 
[194] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


ning  of  an  heavy  cold,  because  unexpressed  by 
words,  entirely  escaped  the  latter  lady’s  observa¬ 
tion,  she  could  discover  in  them  the  quick  feelings 

and  needless  alarm  of  a  lover. 

0 

Two  delightful  twilight  walks  on  the  third  and 
fourth  evenings  of  her  being  there,  not  merely 
on  the  dry  gravel  of  the  shrubbery,  but  all  over 
the  grounds,  and  especially  in  the  most  distant 
parts  of  them,  where  there  was  something  more 
of  wildness  than  in  the  rest,  where  the  trees  were 
the  oldest,  and  the  grass  was  the  longest  and 
wettest,  had — assisted  by  the  still  greater  impru¬ 
dence  of  sitting  in  her  wet  shoes  and  stockings — 
given  Marianne  a  cold  so  violent,  as  though  for  a 
day  or  two  trifled  with  or  denied,  would  force 
itself  by  increasing  ailments  on  the  concern  of 
everybody,  and  the  notice  of  herself.  Prescrip¬ 
tions  poured  in  from  all  quarters,  and  as  usual 
were  all  declined.  Though  heavy  and  feverish, 
with  a  pain  in  her  limbs,  a  cough,  and  a  sore 
throat,  a  good  night’s  rest  was  to  cure  her  en¬ 
tirely;  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  Elinor  pre¬ 
vailed  on  her,  when  she  went  to  bed,  to  try  one  or 
two  of  the  simplest  of  the  remedies. 


[195] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

MARIANNE  got  up  the  next  morning  at 
her  usual  time;  to  every  inquiry  replied 
that  she  was  better,  and  tried  to  prove 
herself  so,  by  engaging  in  her  customary  employ¬ 
ments.  But  a  day  spent  in  sitting  shivering  over 
the  fire  with  a  book  in  her  hand  which  she  was 
unable  to  read,  or  in  lying,  weary  and  languid,  on 
a  sofa,  did  not  speak  much  in  favour  of  her 
amendment;  and  when,  at  last,  she  went  early  to 
bed,  more  and  more  indisposed,  Colonel  Brandon 
was  only  astonished  at  her  sister’s  composure,  who 
though  attending  and  nursing  her  the  whole  day, 
against  Marianne’s  inclination,  and  forcing 
proper  medicines  on  her  at  night,  trusted  like 
Marianne  to  the  certainty  and  efficacy  of  sleep, 
and  felt  no  real  alarm. 

A  very  restless  and  feverish  night,  however, 
disappointed  the  expectation  of  both;  and  when 
Marianne,  after  persisting  in  rising,  confessed 
herself  unable  to  sit  up,  and  returned  voluntarily 
to  her  bed,  Elinor  was  very  ready  to  adopt  Mrs 
Jennings’s  advice,  of  sending  for  the  Palmers’ 
apothecary. 

He  came,  examined  his  patient,  and  though 
encouraging  Miss  Dashwood  to  expect  that  a 
very  few  days  would  restore  her  sister  to  health, 
[196] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

yet  by  pronouncing  her  disorder  to  have  a  putrid 
tendency,  and  allowing  the  word  “infection”  to 
pass  his  lips,  gave  instant  alarm  to  Mrs  Palmer 
on  her  baby’s  account.  Mrs  Jennings,  who  had 
been  inclined  from  the  first  to  think  Marianne’s 
complaint  more  serious  than  Elinor,  now  looked 
very  grave  on  Mr  Harris’s  report,  and  confirm¬ 
ing  Charlotte’s  fears  and  caution,  urged  the  ne¬ 
cessity  of  her  immediate  removal  with  her  infant; 
and  Mr  Palmer,  though  treating  their  apprehen¬ 
sions  as  idle,  found  the  anxiety  and  importunity 
of  his  wife  too  great  to  be  withstood.  Her  de¬ 
parture  therefore  was  fixed  on;  and  within  an 
hour  after  Mr  Harris’s  arrival,  she  set  off,  with 
her  little  boy  and  his  nurse,  for  the  house  of  a 
near  relation  of  Mr  Palmer’s,  who  lived  a  few 
miles  on  the  other  side  of  Bath;  whither  her  hus¬ 
band  promised,  at  her  earnest  entreaty,  to  join 
her  in  a  day  or  two ;  and  whither  she  was  almost 
equally  urgent  with  her  mother  to  accompany  her. 
Mrs  Jennings,  however,  with  a  kindness  of  heart 
which  made  Elinor  really  love  her,  declared  her 
resolution  of  not  stirring  from  Cleveland  as  long 
as  Marianne  remained  ill,  and  of  endeavouring, 
by  her  own  attentive  care,  to  supply  to  her  the 
place  of  the  mother  she  had  taken  her  from;  and 
Elinor  found  her  on  every  occasion  a  most  will¬ 
ing  and  active  helpmate,  desirous  to  share  in  all 
her  fatigues,  and  often,  by  her  better  experience 
in  nursing,  of  material  use. 


[197] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

Poor  Marianne,  languid  and  low  from  the 
nature  of  her  malady,  and  feeling  herself  uni¬ 
versally  ill,  could  no  longer  hope  that  to-morrow 
would  find  her  recovered;  and  the  idea  of  what 
to-morrow  would  have  produced,  but  for  this 
unlucky  illness,  made  every  ailment  more  severe ; 
for  on  that  day  they  were  to  have  begun  their 
journey  home,  and,  attended  the  whole  way  by  a 
servant  of  Mrs  Jennings,  were  to  have  taken  their 
mother  by  surprise  on  the  following  afternoon. 
The  little  that  she  said,  was  all  in  lamentation  of 
this  inevitable  delay ;  though  Elinor  tried  to  raise 
her  spirits,  and  make  her  believe,  as  she  then  really 
believed  herself,  that  it  would  be  a  very  short  one. 

The  next  day  produced  little  or  no  alteration  in 
the  state  of  the  patient;  she  certainly  was  not 
better,  and  except  that  there  was  no  amendment, 
did  not  appear  worse.  Their  party  was  now 
farther  reduced;  for  Mr  Palmer,  though  very 
unwilling  to  go,  as  well  from  real  humanity  and 
good-nature,  as  from  a  dislike  of  appearing  to 
be  frightened  away  by  his  wife,  was  persuaded  at 
last  by  Colonel  Brandon,  to  perf orm  his  promise 
of  following  her;  and  while  he  was  preparing  to 
go,  Colonel  Brandon  himself,  with  a  much  greater 
exertion,  began  to  talk  of  going  likewise.  Here, 
however,  the  kindness  of  Mrs  Jennings  inter¬ 
posed  most  acceptably;  for  to  send  the  Colonel 
away  while  his  love  was  in  so  much  uneasiness  on 


[198] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

her  sister’s  account,  would  be  to  deprive  them 
both,  she  thought,  of  every  comfort;  and  there¬ 
fore  telling  him  at  once  that  his  stay  at  Cleveland 
was  necessary  to  herself,  that  she  should  want 
him  to  play  at  piquet  of  an  evening  while  Miss 
Dashwood  was  above  with  her  sister,  &c.,  she 
urged  him  so  strongly  to  remain,  that  he,  who  was 
gratifying  the  first  wish  of  his  own  heart  by  a 
compliance,  could  not  long  even  aff  ect  to  demur ; 
especially  as  Mrs  Jennings’s  entreaty  was  warmly 
seconded  by  Mr  Palmer,  who  seemed  to  feel  a 
relief  to  himself  in  leaving  behind  him  a  person 
so  well  able  to  assist  or  advise  Miss  Dashwood  in 
any  emergence. 

Marianne  was  of  course  kept  in  ignorance  of 
all  these  arrangements.  She  knew  not  that  she 
had  been  the  means  of  sending  the  owners  of 
Cleveland  away,  in  about  seven  days  from  the  ^ 
time  of  their  arrival.  It  gave  her  no  surprise  that 
she  saw  nothing  of  Mrs  Palmer;  and  as  it  gave 
her  likewise  no  concern,  she  never  mentioned  her 
name. 

Two  days  passed  away  from  the  time  of  Mr 
Palmer’s  departure,  and  her  situation  continued, 
with  little  variation,  the  same.  Mr  Harris,  who 
attended  her  every  day,  still  talked  boldly  of  a 
speedy  recovery,  and  Miss  Dashwood  was  equally 
sanguine;  but  the  expectation  of  the  others  was 
by  no  means  so  cheerful.  Mrs  Jennings  had  de- 

[199] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


termined  very  early  in  the  seisure  that  Marianne 
would  never  get  over  it,  and  Colonel  Brandon, 
who  was  chiefly  of  use  in  listening  to  Mrs  Jen¬ 
nings’s  forebodings,  was  not  in  a  state  of  mind 
to  resist  their  influence.  He  tried  to  reason  him¬ 
self  out  of  fears  which  the  different  judgment  of 
the  apothecary  seemed  to  render  absurd;  but  the 
many  hours  of  each  day  in  which  he  was  left  en¬ 
tirely  alone  were  but  too  favourable  for  the  ad¬ 
mission  of  every  melancholy  idea,  and  he  could 
not  expel  from  his  mind  the  persuasion  that  he 
should  see  Marianne  no  more. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  however,  the 
gloomy  anticipations  of  both  were  almost  done 
away;  for  when  Mr  Harris  arrived,  he  declared 
his  patient  materially  better.  Her  pulse  was 
much  stronger  and  every  symptom  more  favour¬ 
able  than  on  the  preceding  visit.  Elinor,  con¬ 
firmed  in  every  pleasant  hope,  was  all  cheerful¬ 
ness;  rejoicing  that  in  her  letters  to  her  mother, 
she  has  pursued  her  own  judgment  rather  than 
her  friend’s,  in  making  very  light  of  the  indispo¬ 
sition  which  delayed  them  at  Cleveland,  and 
almost  fixing  on  the  time  when  Marianne  would 
be  able  to  travel. 

But  the  day  did  not  close  as  auspiciously  as  it 
began.  Towards  the  evening  Marianne  became 
ill  again,  growing  more  heavy,  restless,  and  un¬ 
comfortable  than  before.  Her  sister,  however, 
[200] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


still  sanguine,  was  willing  to  attribute  the  change 
to  nothing  more  than  the  fatigue  of  having  [sat] 
up  to  have  her  bed  made;  and  carefully  adminis¬ 
tering  the  cordials  prescribed,  saw  her  with  satis¬ 
faction  sink  at  last  into  a  slumber,  from  which  she 
expected  the  most  beneficial  effects.  Her  sleep, 
though  not  so  quiet  as  Elinor  wished  to  see  it, 
lasted  a  considerable  time ;  and  anxious  to  observe 
the  result  of  it  herself,  she  resolved  to  sit  with 
her  during  the  whole  of  it.  Mrs  Jennings,  know¬ 
ing  nothing  of  any  change  in  the  patient,  went 
unusually  early  to  bed ;  her  maid,  who  was  one  of 
the  principal  nurses,  was  recreating  herself  in 
the  housekeeper’s  room,  and  Elinor  remained 
alone  with  Marianne. 

The  repose  of  the  latter  became  more  and  more 
disturbed ;  and  her  sister,  who  watched  with  unre¬ 
mitting  attention  her  continual  change  of  pos¬ 
ture,  and  heard  the  frequent  but  inarticulate 
sounds  of  complaint  which  passed  her  lips,  was 
almost  wishing  to  rouse  her  from  so  painful  a  . 
slumber  when  Marianne,  suddenly  awakened  by 
some  accidental  noise  in  the  house,  started  hastily 
up,  and,  with  feverish  wildness,  cried  out — 

“Is  mama  coming?” 

“Not  yet,”  replied  the  other,  concealing  her 
terror,  and  assisting  Marianne  to  lie  down  again ; 
“but  she  will  be  here  I  hope,  before  it  is  long.  It 
is  a  great  way,  you  know,  from  hence  to  Barton.” 

[201] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“But  she  must  not  go  round  by  London,”  cried 
Marianne,  in  the  same  hurried  manner.  “I  shall 
never  see  her,  if  she  goes  to  London.” 

Elinor  perceived  with  alarm  that  she  was  not 
quite  herself,  and  while  attempting  to  soothe  her, 
eagerly  felt  her  pulse.  It  was  lower  and  quicker 
than  ever;  and  Marianne,  still  talking  wildly  of 
mama,  her  alarm  increased  so  rapidly,  as  to  deter¬ 
mine  her  on  sending  instantly  for  Mr  Harris,  and 
dispatching  a  messenger  to  Barton  for  her 
mother.  To  consult  with  Colonel  Brandon  on  the 
best  means  of  eff  ecting  the  latter,  was  a  thought 
which  immediately  followed  the  resolution  of  its 
performance;  and  as  soon  as  she  had  rung  up  the 
maid  to  take  her  place  by  her  sister,  she  hastened 
down  to  the  drawing-room,  where  she  knew  he 
was  generally  to  be  found  at  a  much  later  hour 
than  at  present. 

It  was  no  time  for  hesitation.  Her  fears  and 
her  difficulties  were  immediately  before  him. 
Her  fears,  he  had  no  courage,  no  confidence,  to 
attempt  the  removal  of; — he  listened  to  them  in 
silent  despondence; — but  her  difficulties  were  in¬ 
stantly  obviated,  for  with  a  readiness  that  seemed 
to  speak  the  occasion,  and  the  service  pre-arranged 
in  his  mind,  he  offered  himself  as  the  messenger 
who  should  fetch  Mrs  Dashwood.  Elinor  made 
no  resistance  that  was  not  easily  overcome.  She 
thanked  him  with  a  brief,  though  fervent  grati- 
[202] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


tude,  and  while  he  went  to  hurry  off  his  servant 
with  a  message  to  Mr  Harris,  and  an  order  for 
post-horses  directly,  she  wrote  a  few  lines  to  her 
mother. 

The  comfort  of  such  a  friend  at  that  moment  as 
Colonel  Brandon — of  such  a  companion  for  her 
mother, — how  gratefully  was  it  felt! — a  com¬ 
panion  whose  judgment  would  guide,  whose  at¬ 
tendance  must  relieve,  and  whose  friendship 
might  sooth  her! — as  far  as  the  shock  of  such  a 
summons  could  be  lessened  to  her,  his  presence, 
his  manners,  his  assistance  would  lessen  it. 

He,  meanwhile,  whatever  he  might  feel,  acted 
with  all  the  firmness  of  a  collected  mind,  made 
every  necessary  arrangement  with  the  utmost  dis¬ 
patch,  and  calculated  with  exactness  the  time  in 
which  she  might  look  for  his  return.  Not  a 
moment  was  lost  in  delay  of  any  kind.  The 
horses  arrived,  even  before  they  were  expected, 
and  Colonel  Brandon  only  pressing  her  hand 
with  a  look  of  solemnity,  and  a  few  words  spoken 
too  low  to  reach  her  ear,  hurried  into  the  carriage. 
It  was  then  about  twelve  o’clock,  and  she  re¬ 
turned  to  her  sister’s  apartment  to  wait  for  the 
arrival  of  the  apothecary,  and  to  watch  by  her  the 
rest  of  the  night.  It  was  a  night  of  almost  equal 
suffering  to  both.  Hour  after  hour  passed  away 
in  sleepless  pain  and  delirium  on  Marianne’s  side, 
and  in  the  most  cruel  anxiety  on  Elinor’s,  before 

[203] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Mr  Harris  appeared.  Her  apprehensions  once 
raised,  paid  by  their  excess  for  all  her  former  se¬ 
curity,  and  the  servant  who  sat  up  with  her,  for 
she  would  not  allow  Mrs  Jennings  to  be  called, 
only  tortured  her  more,  by  hints  of  what  her  mis¬ 
tress  had  always  thought. 

Marianne’s  ideas  were  still,  at  intervals,  fixed 
incoherently  on  her  mother,  and  whenever  she 
mentioned  her  name,  it  gave  a  pang  to  the  heart 
of  poor  Elinor,  who,  reproaching  herself  for  hav¬ 
ing  trifled  with  so  many  days  of  illness,  and 
wretched  for  some  immediate  relief,  fancied  that 
all  relief  might  soon  be  in  vain,  that  everything 
had  been  delayed  too  long,  and  pictured  to  her¬ 
self  her  suff  ering  mother,  arriving  too  late  to  see 
this  darling  child,  or  to  see  her  rational. 

She  was  on  the  point  of  sending  again  for  Mr 
Harris,  or  if  he  could  not  come,  for  some  other 
advice,  when  the  former — but  not  till  after  five 
o’clock — arrived.  His  opinion,  however,  made 
some  little  amends  for  his  delay,  for  though  ac¬ 
knowledging  a  very  unexpected  and  unpleasant 
alteration  in  his  patient,  he  would  not  allow  the 
danger  to  be  material,  and  talked  of  the  relief 
which  a  fresh  mode  of  treatment  must  procure, 
with  a  confidence  which,  in  a  lesser  degree,  was 
communicated  to  Elinor.  He  promised  to  call 
again,  in  the  course  of  three  or  four  hours,  and 
left  both  the  patient  and  her  anxious  attendant 
more  composed  than  he  had  found  them. 

[204] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


With  strong  concern,  and  with  many  re¬ 
proaches  for  not  being  called  to  their  aid,  did  Mrs 
Jennings  hear  in  the  morning  of  what  had 
passed.  Her  former  apprehensions,  now  with 
greater  reason  restored,  left  her  no  doubt  of  the 
event; — and  though  trying  to  speak  comfort  to 
Elinor,  her  conviction  of  her  sister’s  danger 
would  not  allow  her  to  offer  the  comfort  of  hope. 
Her  heart  was  really  grieved.  The  rapid  decay, 
the  early  death  of  a  girl  so  young,  so  lovely  as 
Marianne,  must  have  struck  a  less  interested  per¬ 
son  with  concern.  On  Mrs  Jennings’s  compas¬ 
sion  she  had  other  claims.  She  had  been  for  three 
months  her  companion,  was  still  under  her  care, 
and  she  was  known  to  have  been  greatly  injured, 
and  long  unhappy.  The  distress  of  her  sister  too, 
particularly  a  favourite,  was  before  her; — and  as 
for  their  mother,  when  Mrs  Jennings  considered 
that  Marianne  might  probably  be  to  her  what 
Charlotte  was  to  herself,  her  sympathy  in  her 
suff  erings  was  very  sincere. 

Mr  Harris  was  punctual  in  his  second  visit; — 
but  he  came  to  be  disappointed  in  his  hopes  of 
what  the  last  would  produce.  His  medicines  had 
failed; — the  fever  was  unabated;  and  Marianne 
only  more  quiet — not  more  herself — remained  in 
an  heavy  stupor.  Elinor  catching  all,  and  more 
than  all,  his  fears  in  a  moment,  proposed  to  call  in 
farther  advice.  But  he  judged  it  unnecessary; 

[205] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


he  had  still  something  more  to  try,  some  fresh 
application,  of  whose  success  he  was  almost  as 
confident  as  the  last,  and  his  visit  concluded  with 
encouraging  assurances  which  reached  the  ear, 
but  could  not  enter  the  heart  of  Miss  Dashwood. 
She  was  calm,  except  when  she  thought  of  her 
mother,  but  she  was  almost  hopeless;  and  in  this 
state  she  continued  till  noon,  scarcely  stirring 
from  her  sister’s  bed,  her  thoughts  wandering 
from  one  image  of  grief,  one  suffering  friend  to 
another,  and  her  spirits  oppressed  to  the  utmost 
by  the  conversation  of  Mrs  Jennings,  who 
scrupled  not  to  attribute  the  severity  and  danger 
of  this  attack  to  the  many  weeks  of  previous  in¬ 
disposition  which  Marianne’s  disappointment  had 
brought  on.  Elinor  felt  all  the  reasonableness  of 
the  idea,  and  it  gave  fresh  misery  to  her  reflec¬ 
tions. 

About  noon,  however,  she  began — but  with  a 
caution,  a  dread  of  some  disappointment,  which 
for  some  time  kept  her  silent,  even  to  her  friend 
— to  fancy,  to  hope  she  could  perceive  a  slight 
amendment  in  her  sister’s  pulse; — she  waited, 
watched,  examined  it  again  and  again; — and  at 
last,  with  an  agitation  more  difficult  to  bury 
under  exterior  calmness  than  all  her  foregoing 
distress,  ventured  to  communicate  her  hopes. 
Mrs  Jennings,  though  forced  on  examination  to 
acknowledge  a  temporary  revival,  tried  to  keep 
[206] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


her  young  friend  from  indulging  a  thought  of  its 
continuance;  and  Elinor,  conning  over  every  in¬ 
junction  of  distrust,  told  herself  likewise  not  to 
hope.  But  it  was  too  late.  Hope  had  already 
entered;  and  feeling  all  its  anxious  flutter,  she 
bent  over  her  sister  to  watch — she  hardly  knew 
for  what.  Half  an  hour  passed  away,  and  the 
favourable  symptom  yet  blessed  her.  Others 
even  arose  to  confirm  it.  Her  breath,  her  skin, 
her  lips,  all  flattered  Elinor  with  signs  of  amend¬ 
ment,  and  Marianne  fixed  her  eyes  on  her  with 
a  rational  though  languid  gaze.  Anxiety  and 
hope  now  oppressed  her  in  equal  degrees,  and  left 
her  no  moment  of  tranquillity  till  the  arrival  of 
Mr  Harris  at  four  o’clock; — when  his  assurances, 
his  felicitations  on  a  recovery  in  her  sister  even 
surpassing  his  expectation,  gave  her  confidence, 
comfort,  and  tears  of  joy. 

Marianne  was  in  every  respect  materially  bet¬ 
ter,  and  he  declared  her  entirely  out  of  danger. 
Mrs  Jennings,  perhaps  satisfied  with  the  partial 
justification  of  her  forebodings  which  had  been 
found  in  their  late  alarm,  allowed  herself  to  trust 
in  his  judgment,  and  admitted  with  unfeigned 
joy,  and  soon  with  unequivocal  cheerfulness,  the 
probability  of  an  entire  recovery. 

Elinor  could  not  be  cheerful.  Her  joy  was  of 
a  different  kind,  and  led  to  anything  rather  than 
to  gaiety.  Marianne  restored  to  life,  health, 

[207] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


friends,  and  to  her  doating  mother,  was  an  idea  to 
fill  her  heart  with  sensations  of  exquisite  comfort, 
and  expand  it  in  f  ervent  gratitude ; — but  it  led  to 
no  outward  demonstrations  of  joy,  no  words,  no 
smiles.  All  within  Elinor’s  breast  was  satisfac¬ 
tion,  silent  and  strong. 

She  continued  by  the  side  of  her  sister  with  lit¬ 
tle  intermission  the  whole  afternoon,  calming 
every  fear,  satisfying  every  inquiry  of  her  en¬ 
feebled  spirits,  supplying  ever  succour  and 
watching  almost  every  look  and  every  breath. 
The  possibility  of  a  relapse  would,  of  course,  in 
some  moments,  occur  to  remind  her  of  what 
anxiety  was — but  when  she  saw  on  her  frequent 
and  minute  examination,  that  every  symptom  of 
recovery  continued,  and  saw  Marianne  at  six 
o’clock,  sink  into  a  quiet,  steady,  and  to  all  ap¬ 
pearance  comfortable  sleep,  she  silenced  every 
doubt. 

The  time  was  now  drawing  on  when  Colonel 
Brandon  might  be  expected  back.  At  ten  o’clock, 
she  trusted,  or  at  least  not  much  later,  her  mother 
would  be  relieved  from  the  dreadful  suspense  in 
which  she  must  now  be  travelling  towards  them. 
The  Colonel  too! — perhaps  scarcely  less  an  object 
of  pity! — Oh!  how  slow  was  the  progress  of  time 
which  yet  kept  them  in  ignorance ! 

At  seven  o’clock,  leaving  Marianne  still  sweetly 
asleep,  she  joined  Mrs  Jennings  in  the  drawing- 
[208] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


room  to  tea.  Of  breakfast  she  had  been  kept  by 
her  f ears,  and  of  dinner  by  their  sudden  reverse, 
from  eating  much; — and  the  present  refresh¬ 
ment,  therefore,  with  such  feelings  of  content  as 
she  brought  to  it,  was  particularly  welcome.  Mrs 
Jennings  would  have  persuaded  her  at  its  con¬ 
clusion  to  take  some  rest  before  her  mother’s 
arrival,  and  allow  her  to  take  her  place  by  Mari¬ 
anne;  but  Elinor  had  no  sense  of  fatigue,  no 
capability  of  sleep  at  that  moment  about  her,  and 
she  was  not  to  be  kept  away  from  her  sister  an 
unnecessary  instant.  Mrs  Jennings  therefore 
attending  her  up  stairs  into  the  sick  chamber,  to 
satisfy  herself  that  all  continued  right,  left  her 
there  again  to  her  charge  and  her  thoughts,  and 
retired  to  her  own  room  to  write  letters  and  sleep. 

The  night  was  cold  and  stormy.  The  wind 
roared  round  the  house,  and  the  rain  beat  against 
the  windows;  but  Elinor  all  happiness  within, 
regarded  it  not.  Marianne  slept  through  every 
blast,  and  the  travellers — they  had  a  rich  reward 
in  store,  for  every  present  inconvenience. 

The  clock  struck  eight.  Had  it  been  ten,  Elinor 
would  have  been  convinced  that  at  that  moment 
she  heard  a  carriage  driving  up  to  the  house ;  and 
so  strong  was  the  persuasion  that  she  did ,  in  spite 
of  the  almost  impossibility  of  their  being  already 
come,  that  she  moved  into  the  adjoining  dressing- 
closet  and  opened  a  window-shutter,  to  be  satis- 

[209] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


fled  of  the  truth.  She  instantly  saw  that  her  ears 
had  not  deceived  her.  The  flaring  lamps  of  a 
carriage  were  immediately  in  view.  By  their 
uncertain  light  she  thought  she  could  discern  it 
to  be  drawn  by  f our  horses ;  and  this,  while  it  told 
the  excess  of  her  poor  mother’s  alarm,  gave  some 
explanation  to  such  unexpected  rapidity. 

Never  in  her  life  had  Elinor  found  it  so  diffi¬ 
cult  to  be  calm,  as  at  that  moment.  The  knowl¬ 
edge  of  what  her  mother  must  be  feeling  as  the 
carriage  stopt  at  the  door, — of  her  doubt — her 
dread — perhaps  her  despair! — and  of  what  she 
had  to  tell! — with  such  knowledge  it  was  impos¬ 
sible  to  be  calm.  All  that  remained  to  be  done 
was  to  be  speedy;  and  therefore  staying  only  till 
she  could  leave  Mrs  Jennings’s  maid  with  her 
sister,  she  hurried  down  stairs. 

The  bustle  in  the  vestibule,  as  she  passed  along 
an  inner  lobby,  assured  her  that  they  were  already 
in  the  house.  She  rushed  forwards  towards  the 
drawing-room — she  entered  it, — and  saw  only 
Willoughby. 


[210] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

ELINOR,  starting  back  with  a  look  of  horror 
at  the  sight  of  him,  obeyed  the  first 
impulse  of  her  heart  in  turning  instantly 
to  quit  the  room,  and  her  hand  was  already  on  the 
lock,  when  its  action  was  suspended  by  his  hastily 
advancing,  and  saying,  in  a  voice  rather  of  com¬ 
mand  than  supplication — 

“Miss  Dash  wood,  for  half  an  hour — for  ten 
minutes — I  entreat  you  to  stay.” 

“No,  sir,”  she  replied  with  firmness,  “I  shall  not 
stay.  Your  business  cannot  be  with  me .  The 
servants,  I  suppose,  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Mr' 
Palmer  was  not  in  the  house.” 

“Had  they  told  me,”  he  cried  with  vehemence, 
“that  Mr  Palmer  and  all  his  relations  were  at  the 
devil,  it  would  not  have  turned  me  from  the  door. 
My  business  is  with  you,  and  only  you.” 

“With  me!”  in  the  utmost  amazement — “well, 
sir — be  quick — and  if  you  can — less  violent.” 

“Sit  down,  and  I  will  be  both.” 

She  hesitated;  she  knew  not  what  to  do.  The 
possibility  of  Colonel  Brandon’s  arriving  and 
finding  him  there,  came  across  her.  But  she  had 
promised  to  hear  him,  and  her  curiosity  no  less 
than  her  honour  was  engaged.  After  a  moment’s 
recollection,  therefore,  concluding  that  ^prudence 

[211] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


required  dispatch,  and  that  her  acquiescence 
would  best  promote  it,  she  walked  silently  towards 
the  table  and  sat  down.  He  took  the  opposite 
chair,  and  for  half  a  minute  not  a  word  was  said 
by  either. 

“Pray  be  quick,  sir/’  said  Elinor  impatiently — 
“I  have  no  time  to  spare.” 

He  was  sitting  in  an  attitude  of  deep  medita¬ 
tion,  and  seemed  not  to  hear  her. 

“Your  sister,”  said  he,  with  abruptness,  a 
moment  afterwards — “is  out  of  danger.  I  heard 
it  from  the  servant.  God  be  praised! — But  is  it 
true  ? — is  it  really  true  ?”  , 

Elinor  would  not  speak.  He  repeated  the 
inquiry  with  yet  greater  eagerness. 

“For  God’s  sake  tell  me,  is  she  out  of  danger, 
or  is  she  not?” 

“We  hope  she  is.” 

He  rose  up,  and  walked  across  the  room. 

“Had  I  known  as  much  half  an  hour  ago — But 
since  I  am  here” — speaking  with  a  forced  vivacity 
as  he  returned  to  his  seat — “what  does  it  signify? 
— For  once,  Miss  Dashwood — it  will  be  the  last 
time,  perhaps — let  us  be  cheerful  together. — I  am 
in  a  fine  mood  for  gaiety. — Tell  me  honestly” — a 
deeper  glow  overspreading  his  cheeks — “do  you 
think  me  most  a  knave  or  a  fool?” 

Elinor  looked  at  him  with  greater  astonish¬ 
ment  than  ever.  She  began  to  think  that  he  must 
[212] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

be  in  liquor ; — the  strangeness  of  such  a  visit,  and 
of  such  manners,  seemed  no  otherwise  intelli¬ 
gible;  and  with  this  impression,  she  immediately 
rose,  saying — 

“Mr  Willoughby,  I  advise  you  at  present  to 
return  to  Combe.  I  am  not  at  leisure  to  remain 
with  you  longer.  Whatever  your  business  may  be 
with  me,  it  will  be  better  recollected  and  explained 
to-morrow.” 

“I  understand  you,”  he  replied,  with  an  ex¬ 
pressive  smile,  and  a  voice  perfectly  calm.  “Yes, 
I  am  very  drunk.  A  pint  of  porter  with  my  cold 
beef  at  Marlborough  was  enough  to  overset  me.” 

“At  Marlborough!”  cried  Elinor,  more  and 
more  at  a  loss  to  understand  what  he  would  be  at. 

“Yes — I  left  London  this  morning  at  eight 
o’clock,  and  the  only  ten  minutes  I  have  spent  out 
of  my  chaise  since  that  time  procured  me  a 
nuncheon*  at  Marlborough.” 

The  steadiness  of  his  manner,  and  the  intelli¬ 
gence  of  his  eye  as  he  spoke,  convincing  Elinor, 
that  whatever  other  unpardonable  folly  might 
bring  him  to  Cleveland,  he  was  not  brought  there 
by  intoxication,  she  said,  after  a  moment’s  recol¬ 
lection — 

“Mr  Willoughby,  you  ought  to  feel,  and  I  cer¬ 
tainly  do — that  after  what  has  passed — your 
coming  here  in  this  manner,  and  forcing  yourself 

*A  piece  of  victuals  eaten  between  meals. — “Johnson’s  Dictionary 

[213] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


upon  my  notice,  requires  a  very  particular  excuse. 
What  is  it  that  you  mean  by  it?” 

“I  mean,”  said  he,  with  serious  energy,  “if  I 
can,  to  make  you  hate  me  one  degree  less  than 
you  do  now .  I  mean  to  off  er  some  kind  of  expla¬ 
nation,  some  kind  of  apology,  for  the  past — to 
open  my  whole  heart  to  you,  and  by  convincing 
you,  that  though  I  have  been  always  a  blockhead, 
I  have  not  been  always  a  rascal,  to  obtain  some¬ 
thing  like  forgiveness  from  Ma — from  your 
sister.” 

“Is  this  the  real  reason  of  your  coming?” 

“Upon  my  soul  it  is,”  was  his  answer,  with  a 
warmth  which  brought  all  the  former  Willoughby 
to  her  remembrance,  and  in  spite  of  herself  made 
her  think  him  sincere. 

“If  that  is  all,  you  may  be  satisfied  already, — 
for  Marianne  does — she  has  long  forgiven  you.” 

“Has  she!” — he  cried,  in  the  same  eager  tone. 
— “Then  she  has  forgiven  me  before  she  ought 
to  have  done  it.  But  she  shall  forgive  me  again, 
and  on  more  reasonable  grounds.  Now ,  will  you 
listen  to  me?” 

Elinor  bowed  her  assent. 

“I  do  not  know,”  said  he,  after  a  pause  of 
expectation  on  her  side,  and  thoughtfulness  on 
his  own, — “how  you  may  have  accounted  for  my 
behaviour  to  your  sister,  or  what  diabolical 
motive  you  may  have  imputed  to  me. — Perhaps 
[214] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


you  will  hardly  think  the  better  of  me, — it  is 
worth  the  trial,  however,  and  you  shall  hear  every¬ 
thing.  When  I  first  became  intimate  in  your 
family,  I  had  no  other  intention,  no  other  view 
in  the  acquaintance  than  to  pass  my  time  pleas¬ 
antly  while  I  was  obliged  to  remain  in  Devon¬ 
shire,  more  pleasantly  than  I  had  ever  done 
before.  Your  sister’s  lovely  person  and  interest¬ 
ing  manners  could  not  but  please  me;  and  her 
behaviour  to  me,  almost  from  the  first,  was  of  a 

kind - It  is  astonishing,  when  I  reflect  on  what 

it  was,  and  what  she  was,  that  my  heart  should 
have  been  so  insensible ! — But  at  first,  I  must  con¬ 
fess,  my  vanity  only  was  elevated  by  it.  Careless 
of  her  happiness,  thinking  only  of  my  own  amuse¬ 
ment,  giving  way  to  feelings  which  I  had  always 
been  too  much  in  the  habit  of  indulging,  I  en¬ 
deavoured,  by  every  means  in  my  power,  to  make 
myself  pleasing  to  her,  without  any  design  of 
returning  her  affection.” 

Miss  Dashwood  at  this  point,  turning  her  eyes 
on  him  with  the  most  angry  contempt,  stopped 
him,  by  saying — 

“It  is  hardly  worth  while,  Mr  Willoughby,  for 
you  to  relate,  or  for  me  to  listen  any  longer. 
Such  a  beginning  as  this  cannot  be  followed  by 
anything.  Do  not  let  me  be  pained  by  hearing 
anything  more  on  the  subject.” 

“I  insist  on  your  hearing  the  whole  of  it,”  he 

[215] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


replied.  “My  fortune  was  never  large,  and  I  had 
always  been  expensive,  always  in  the  habit  of 
associating  with  people  of  better  income  than 
myself.  Every  year  since  my  coming  of  age,  or 
even  before,  I  believe,  had  added  to  my  debts; 
and  though  the  death  of  my  old  cousin,  Mrs 
Smith,  was  to  set  me  free,  yet  that  event  being 
uncertain,  and  possibly  far  distant,  it  had  been 
for  some  time  my  intention  to  re-establish  my  cir¬ 
cumstances  by  marrying  a  woman  of  fortune. 
To  attach  myself  to  your  sister,  therefore,  was 
not  a  thing  to  be  thought  of ; — and  with  a  mean¬ 
ness,  selfishness,  cruelty — which  no  indignant,  no 
contemptuous  look,  even  of  yours,  Miss  Dash- 
wood,  can  ever  reprobate  too  much — I  was  acting 
in  this  manner,  trying  to  engage  her  regard,  with¬ 
out  a  thought  of  returning  it.  But  one  thing  may 
be  said  for  me,  even  in  that  horrid  state  of  selfish 
vanity,  I  did  not  know  the  extent  of  the  injury 
I  meditated,  because  I  did  not  then  know  what  it 
was  to  love.  But  have  I  ever  known  it? — Well 
may  it  be  doubted;  for,  had  I  really  loved,  could 
I  have  sacrificed  my  feelings  to  vanity,  to  avarice? 
— or,  what  is  more,  could  I  have  sacrificed  hers? 
— But  I  have  done  it.  To  avoid  a  comparative 
poverty,  which  her  affection  and  her  society 
would  have  deprived  of  all  its  horrors,  I  have,  by 
raising  myself  to  affluence,  lost  everything  that 
could  make  it  a  blessing.” 

[216] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“You  did  then,”  said  Elinor,  a  little  softened, 
“believe  yourself  at  one  time  attached  to  her.” 

“To  have  resisted  such  attractions,  to  have  with¬ 
stood  such  tenderness! — Is  there  a  man  on  earth 
who  could  have  done  it! — Yes,  I  found  myself, 
by  insensible  degrees,  sincerely  fond  of  her;  and 
the  happiest  hours  of  my  life  were  what  I  spent 
with  her,  when  I  felt  my  intentions  were  strictly 
honourable,  and  my  feelings  blameless.  Even 
then ,  however,  when  fully  determined  on  paying 
my  addresses  to  her,  I  allowed  myself  most 
improperly,  to  put  off,  from  day  to  day,  the 
moment  of  doing  it,  from  an  unwillingness  to 
enter  into  an  engagement  while  my  circumstances 
were  so  greatly  embarrassed.  I  will  not  reason 
here — nor  will  I  stop  for  you  to  expatiate  on  the 
absurdity,  and  the  worse  than  absurdity,  of  scru¬ 
pling  to  engage  my  faith  where  my  honour  was 
already  bound.  The  event  has  proved,  that  I  was 
a  cunning  fool,  providing  with  great  circumspec¬ 
tion  for  a  possible  opportunity  of  making  myself 
contemptible  and  wretched  for  ever.  At  last, 
however,  my  resolution  was  taken,  and  I  had 
determined,  as  soon  as  I  could  engage  her  alone, 
to  justify  the  attentions  I  had  so  invariably  paid 
her,  and  openly  assure  her  of  an  affection  which 
I  had  already  taken  such  pains  to  display.  But 
in  the  interim — in  the  interim  of  the  very  few 
hours  that  were  to  pass,  before  I  could  have  an 

[217] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


opportunity  of  speaking  with  her  in  private — a 
circumstance  occurred — an  unlucky  circum¬ 
stance,  to  ruin  all  my  resolution,  and  with  it  all 
my  comfort.  A  discovery  took  place,” — here  he 
hesitated  and  looked  down. — “Mrs  Smith  had 
somehow  or  other  been  informed,  I  imagine  by 
some  distant  relation,  whose  interest  it  was  to 
deprive  me  of  her  favour,  of  an  affair,  a  connec¬ 
tion — but  I  need  not  explain  myself  farther,”  he 
added,  looking  at  her  with  a  heightened  colour 
and  an  inquiring  eye,  “y°llr  particular  intimacy 
— you  have  probably  heard  the  whole  story  long 
ago.” 

“I  have,”  returned  Elinor,  colouring  likewise, 
and  hardening  her  heart  anew  against  any  com¬ 
passion  for  him,  “I  have  heard  it  all.  And  how 
you  will  explain  away  any  part  of  your  guilt  in 
that  dreadful  business,  I  confess  is  beyond  my 
comprehension .  ’  ’ 

“Remember,”  cried  Willoughby,  “from  whom 
you  received  the  account.  Could  it  be  an  impar¬ 
tial  one?  I  acknowledge  that  her  situation  and 
her  character  ought  to  have  been  respected  by  me. 
I  do  not  mean  to  justify  myself,  but  at  the  same 
time  cannot  leave  you  to  suppose  that  I  have 
nothing  to  urge, — that  because  she  was  injured, 
she  was  irreproachable ;  and  because  I  was  a  liber¬ 
tine,  she  must  be  a  saint.  If  the  violence  of  her 
passions,  the  weakness  of  her  understanding — I 
[218] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


do  not  mean,  however,  to  defend  myself.  Her 
affection  for  me  deserved  better  treatment,  and  I 
often,  with  great  self-reproach,  recall  the  tender¬ 
ness  which,  for  a  very  short  time,  had  the  power 
of  creating  any  return.  I  wish — I  heartily  wish 
it  had  never  been.  But  I  have  injured  more  than 
herself;  and  I  have  injured  one  whose  affection 
for  me  (may  I  say  it?)  was  scarcely  less  warm 
than  hers,  and  whose  mind — Oh!  how  infinitely 
superior!” 

“Your  indifference,  however,  towards  that  un¬ 
fortunate  girl — I  must  say  it,  unpleasant  to  me 
as  the  discussion  of  such  a  subject  may  well  be — 
your  indifference  is  no  apology  for  your  cruel 
neglect  of  her.  Do  not  think  yourself  excused 
by  any  weakness,  any  natural  defect  of  under¬ 
standing  on  her  side,  in  the  wanton  cruelty  so 
evident  on  yours.  You  must  have  known,  that 
while  you  were  enjoying  yourself  in  Devonshire, 
pursuing  fresh  schemes,  always  gay,  always 
happy,  she  was  reduced  to  the  extremest  indi¬ 
gence.” 

“But,  upon  my  soul,  I  did  not  know  it,”  he 
warmly  replied;  “I  did  not  recollect  that  I  had 
omitted  to  give  her  my  direction;  and  common- 
sense  might  have  told  her  how  to  find  it  out.” 

“Well,  sir,  and  what  said  Mrs  Smith?” 

“She  taxed  me  with  the  offence,  at  once,  and 
my  confusion  may  be  guessed.  The  purity  of  her 

[219] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


life,  the  formality  of  her  notions,  her  ignorance 
of  the  world — everything  was  against  me.  The 
matter  itself  I  could  not  deny,  and  vain  was  every 
endeavour  to  soften  it.  She  was  previously  dis¬ 
posed,  I  believe,  to  doubt  the  morality  of  my  con¬ 
duct  in  general,  and  was  moreover  discontented 
with  the  very  little  attention,  the  very  little  por¬ 
tion  of  my  time  that  I  had  bestowed  on  her,  in  my 
present  visit.  In  short,  it  ended  in  a  total  breach. 
By  one  measure  I  might  have  saved  myself.  In 
the  height  of  her  morality,  good  woman!  she 
offered  to  forgive  the  past  if  I  would  marry 
Eliza.  That  could  not  be — and  I  was  formally 
dismissed  from  her  favour  and  her  house.  The 
night  following  this  affair — I  was  to  go  the  next 
morning — was  spent  by  me  in  deliberating  on 
what  my  future  conduct  should  be.  The  struggle 
was  great — but  it  ended  too  soon.  My  affection 
for  Marianne,  my  thorough  conviction  of  her  at¬ 
tachment  to  me — it  was  all  insufficient  to  out¬ 
weigh  that  dread  of  poverty,  or  get  the  better  of 
those  false  ideas  of  the  necessity  of  riches,  which 
I  was  naturally  inclined  to  feel,  and  expensive 
society  had  increased.  I  had  reason  to  believe 
myself  secure  of  my  present  wife,  if  I  chose  to 
address  her,  and  I  persuaded  myself  to  think  that 
nothing  else  in  common  prudence  remained  for 
me  to  do.  An  heavy  scene  however  awaited  me, 
before  I  could  leave  Devonshire;  I  was  engaged 
[220] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


to  dine  with  you  on  that  very  day,  some  apology 
was  therefore  necessary  for  my  breaking  the  en¬ 
gagement.  But  whether  I  should  write  this 
apology,  or  deliver  it  in  person,  was  a  point  of 
long  debate.  To  see  Marianne,  I  felt  would  be 
dreadful,  and  I  even  doubted  whether  I  could  see 
her  again,  and  keep  to  my  resolution.  In  that 
point,  however,  I  undervalued  by  own  magna¬ 
nimity,  as  the  event  declared;  for  I  went,  I  saw 
her,  and  saw  her  miserable,  and  left  her  miserable 
— and  left  her,  hoping  never  to  see  her  again.” 

“Why  did  you  call,  Mr  Willoughby?”  said  Eli¬ 
nor,  reproachfully;  “a  note  would  have  answered 
every  purpose.  Why  was  it  necessary  to  call?” 

“It  was  necessary  to  my  own  pride.  I  could 
not  bear  to  leave  the  country  in  a  manner  that 
might  lead  you,  or  the  rest  of  the  neighborhood, 
to  suspect  any  part  of  what  had  really  passed 
between  Mrs  Smith  and  myself,  and  I  resolved 
therefore  on  calling  at  the  cottage,  in  my  way  to 
Honiton.  The  sight  of  your  dear  sister,  however, 
was  really  dreadful;  and  to  heighten  the  matter, 
I  found  her  alone.  You  were  all  gone,  I  do  not 
know  where.  I  had  left  her  only  the  evening 
before,  so  fully,  so  firmly  resolved  within  myself 
on  doing  right!  A  few  hours  were  to  have  en¬ 
gaged  her  to  me  for  ever;  and  I  remember  how 
happy,  how  gay  were  my  spirits,  as  I  walked  from 
the  cottage  to  Allenham,  satisfied  with  myself, 

[221] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


delighted  with  everybody!  But  in  this,  our  last 
interview  of  friendship,  I  approached  her  with  a 
sense  of  guilt  that  almost  took  from  me  the  power 
of  dissembling.  Her  sorrow,  her  disappoint¬ 
ment,  her  deep  regret,  when  I  told  her,  that  I 
was  obliged  to  leave  Devonshire  so  immediately 
— -I  never  shall  forget  it;  united,  too,  with  such 
reliance,  such  confidence  in  me!  O  God!  what 
an  hard-hearted  rascal  I  was!” 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  few  moments. 
Elinor  first  spoke. 

“Did  you  tell  her  that  you  should  soon  return?” 

“I  do  not  know  what  I  told  her,”  he  replied, 
impatiently;  “less  than  was  due  to  the  past, 
beyond  a  doubt,  and  in  all  likelihood  much  more 
than  was  justified  by  the  future.  I  cannot  think 
of  it — it  won’t  do.  Then  came  your  dear  mother 
to  torture  me  farther,  with  all  her  kindness  and 
confidence.  Thank  Heaven !  it  did  torture  me.  I 
was  miserable.  Miss  Dashwood,  you  cannot  have 
an  idea  of  the  comfort  it  gives  me  to  look  back  on 
my  own  misery.  I  owe  such  a  grudge  to  myself 
for  the  stupid,  rascally  folly  of  my  own  heart, 
that  all  my  past  sufferings  under  it  are  only  tri¬ 
umph  and  exultation  to  me  now.  Well,  I  went, 
left  all  that  I  loved,  and  went  to  those  to  whom, 
at  best,  I  was  only  indifferent.  My  journey  to 
town — travelling  with  my  own  horses,  and  there¬ 
fore  so  tediously — no  creature  to  speak  to — my 
[222] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


own  reflections  so  cheerful — when  I  looked  for¬ 
ward  everything  so  inviting! — when  I  looked 
back  at  Barton,  the  picture  so  soothing! — oh! — it 
was  a  blessed  journey.” 

He  stopt. 

“Well,  sir,”  said  Elinor,  who,  though  pitying 
him,  grew  impatient  for  his  departure,  “and  this 
is  all?” 

“All! — no — have  you  forgot  what  passed  in 
town?  That  infamous  letter!  Did  she  shew  it 
you?” 

“Yes,  I  saw  every  note  that  passed.” 

“When  the  first  of  hers  reached  me  (as  it  imme¬ 
diately  did,  for  I  was  in  town  the  whole  time), 
what  I  felt  is — in  the  common  phrase,  not  to  be 
expressed;  in  a  more  simple  one — perhaps  too 
simple  to  raise  any  emotion — my  feelings  were 
very,  very  painful.  Every  line,  every  word  was 
— in  the  hackneyed  metaphor  which  their  dear 
writer,  were  she  here,  would  forbid,  a  dagger  to 
my  heart.  To  know  that  Marianne  was  in  town 
was  in  the  same  language — a  thunderbolt.  Thun¬ 
derbolts  and  daggers ! — what  a  reproof  would  she 
have  given  me! — her  taste,  her  opinions — I 
believe  they  are  better  known  to  me  than  my  own, 
and  I  am  sure  they  are  dearer.” 

Elinor’s  heart,  which  had  undergone  many 
changes  in  the  course  of  this  extraordinary  con¬ 
versation,  was  now  softened  again;  yet  she  felt 

[223] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


it  her  duty  to  check  such  ideas  in  her  companion 
as  the  last. 

“This  is  not  right,  Mr  Willoughby.  Remem¬ 
ber  that  you  are  married.  Relate  only  what  in 
your  conscience  you  think  necessary  for  me  to 
hear.” 

“Marianne’s  note,  by  assuring  me  that  I  was 
still  as  dear  to  her  as  in  former  days — that  in  spite 
of  the  many,  many  weeks  we  had  been  separated, 
she  was  as  constant  in  her  own  feelings  and  as  full 
of  faith  in  the  constancy  of  mine  as  ever,  awak¬ 
ened  all  my  remorse.  I  say  awakened,  because 
time  and  London,  business  and  dissipation  had  in 
some  measure  quieted  it,  and  I  had  been  growing 
a  fine  hardened  villain,  fancying  myself  indiffer¬ 
ent  to  her,  and  chusing  to  fancy  that  she  too  must 
have  become  indiff  erent  to  me ;  talking  to  myself 
of  our  past  attachment  as  a  mere  idle,  trifling 
business,  shrugging  up  my  shoulders  in  proof  of 
its  being  so,  and  silencing  every  reproach,  over¬ 
coming  every  scruple,  by  secretly  saying  now  and 
then,  T  shall  he  heartily  glad  to  hear  she  is  well 
married.’  But  this  note  made  me  know  myself 
better.  I  felt  that  she  was  infinitely  dearer  to  me 
than  any  other  woman  in  the  world,  and  that  I 
was  using  her  infamously.  But  everything  was 
then  just  settled  between  Miss  Grey  and  me.  To 
retreat  was  impossible.  All  that  I  had  to  do,  was 
to  avoid  you  both.  I  sent  no  answer  to  Marianne, 
[224] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


intending  by  that  means  to  preserve  myself  from 
her  farther  notice;  and  for  some  time  I  was  even 
determined  not  to  call  in  Berkeley-street :  but  at 
last,  judging  it  wiser  to  affect  the  air  of  a  cool, 
common  acquaintance  than  anything  else,  I 
watched  you  all  safely  out  of  the  house  one  morn¬ 
ing,  and  left  my  name.” 

“Watched  us  out  of  the  house!” 

“Even  so.  You  would  be  surprised  to  hear  how 
often  I  watched  you,  how  often  I  was  on  the 
point  of  falling  in  with  you.  I  have  entered 
many  a  shop  to  avoid  your  sight,  as  the  carriage 
drove  by.  Lodging  as  I  did  in  Bond  Street, 
there  was  hardly  a  day  in  which  I  did  not  catch 
a  glimpse  of  one  or  other  of  you;  and  nothing 
but  the  most  constant  watchfulness  on  my  side, 
a  most  invariably  prevailing  desire  to  keep  out 
of  your  sight,  could  have  separated  us  so  long.  I 
avoided  the  Middletons  as  much  as  possible,  as 
well  as  everybody  else  who  was  likely  to  prove  an 
acquaintance  in  common.  Not  aware  of  their 
being  in  town,  however,  I  blundered  on  Sir  John, 
I  believe,  the  first  day  of  his  coming,  and  the  day 
after  I  called  at  Mrs  Jennings’s.  He  asked  me 
to  a  party,  a  dance  at  his  house  in  the  evening. 
Had  he  not  told  me  as  an  inducement  that  you 
and  your  sister  were  to  be  there,  I  should  have 
felt  it  too  certain  a  thing  to  trust  myself  near  him. 
The  next  morning  brought  another  short  note 

[225] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


from  Marianne — still  affectionate,  open,  artless, 
confiding — everything  that  could  make  my  con¬ 
duct  most  hateful.  I  could  not  answer  it.  I 
tried,  but  could  not  frame  a  sentence.  But  I 
thought  of  her,  I  believe,  every  moment  of  the 
day.  If  you  can  pity  me,  Miss  Dashwood,  pity 
my  situation  as  it  was  then.  With  my  head  and 
heart  full  of  your  sister,  I  was  forced  to  play  the 
happy  lover  to  another  woman!  Those  three  or 
four  weeks  were  worse  than  all.  Well,  at  last, 
as  I  need  not  tell  you,  you  were  forced  on  me: 
and  what  a  sweet  figure  I  cut!  what  an  evening 
of  agony  it  was!  Marianne,  beautiful  as  an 
angel,  on  one  side,  calling  me  Willoughby  in 
such  a  tone! — O  God! — holding  out  her  hand  to 
me,  asking  me  for  an  explanation  with  those  be¬ 
witching  eyes  fixed  in  such  speaking  solicitude  on 
my  face!  and  Sophia,  jealous  as  the  devil,  on  the 
other  hand,  looking  all  that  was —  Well,  it  does 
not  signify;  it  is  over  now.  Such  an  evening!  I 
ran  away  from  you  all  as  soon  as  I  could,  but  not 
before  I  had  seen  Marianne’s  sweet  face  as  white 
as  death.  That  was  the  last,  last  look  I  ever  had 
of  her — the  last  manner  in  which  she  appeared 
to  me.  It  was  a  horrid  sight!  Yet  when  I 
thought  of  her  to-day  as  really  dying,  it  was  a 
kind  of  comfort  to  me  to  imagine  that  I  knew 
exactly  how  she  would  appear  to  those  who  saw 
her  last  in  this  world.  She  was  before  me,  con- 
[226] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


stantly  before  me,  as  I  travelled,  in  the  same  look 
and  hue.” 

A  short  pause  of  mutual  thoughtfulness  suc¬ 
ceeded.  Willoughby,  first  rousing  himself,  broke 
it  thus — 

“Well,  let  me  make  haste  and  be  gone.  Your 
sister  is  certainly  better,  certainly  out  of  danger.” 

“We  are  assured  of  it.” 

“Your  poor  mother  too! — doting  on  Mari¬ 
anne.” 

“But  the  letter,  Mr  Willoughby,  your  own  let¬ 
ter;  have  you  anything  to  say  about  that?” 

“Yes,  yes,  that  in  particular.  Your  sister  wrote 
to  me  again,  you  know,  the  very  next  morning. 
You  saw  what  she  said.  I  was  breakfasting  at 
the  Ellisons’ ;  and  her  letter,  with  some  others,  was 
brought  to  me  there  from  my  lodgings.  It  hap¬ 
pened  to  catch  Sophia’s  eye  before  it  caught 
mine;  and  its  size,  the  elegance  of  the  paper,  the 
handwriting,  altogether  immediately  gave  her  a 
suspicion.  Some  vague  report  had  reached  her 
before  of  my  attachment  to  some  young  lady  in 
Devonshire,  and  what  had  passed  within  her  ob¬ 
servation  the  preceding  evening  had  marked  who 
the  young  lady  was,  and  made  her  more  jealous 
than  ever.  Affecting  that  air  of  playfulness, 
therefore,  which  is  delightful  in  a  woman  one 
loves,  she  opened  the  letter  directly,  and  read  its 
contents.  She  was  well  paid  for  her  impudence. 

[227] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


She  read  what  made  her  wretched.  Her  wretch¬ 
edness  I  could  have  borne,  but  her  passion — her 
malice — at  all  events  it  must  be  appeased.  And 
in  short,  what  do  you  think  of  my  wife’s  style  of 
letter-writing? — delicate,  tender,  truly  feminine 
— was  it  not?” 

“Your  wife! — the  letter  was  in  your  own  hand¬ 
writing.” 

“Yes,  but  I  had  only  the  credit  of  servilely 
copying  such  sentences  as  I  was  ashamed  to  put 
my  name  to.  The  original  was  all  her  own,  her 
own  happy  thoughts  and  gentle  diction.  But 
what  could  I  do? — we  were  engaged,  everything 
in  preparation,  the  day  almost  fixed — but  I  am 
talking  like  a  fool.  Preparation! — day! — In 

honest  words,  her  money  was  necessary  to  me,  and 
in  a  situation  like  mine  anything  was  to  be  done 
to  prevent  a  rupture.  And  after  all,  what  did  it 
signify  to  my  character  in  the  opinion  of  Mari¬ 
anne  and  her  friends,  in  what  language  my 
answer  was  couched?  It  must  have  been  only  to 
one  end.  My  business  was  to  declare  myself  a 
scoundrel,  and  whether  I  did  it  with  a  bow  or  a 
bluster  was  of  little  importance.  T  am  ruined  for 
ever  in  their  opinion,’  said  I  to  myself ;  T  am  shut 
out  for  ever  from  their  society;  they  already  think 
me  an  unprincipled  fellow,  this  letter  will  only 
make  them  think  me  a  blackguard  one.’  Such 
were  my  reasonings  as,  in  a  sort  of  desperate  care- 
[228] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


lessness,  I  copied  my  wife’s  words,  and  parted 
with  the  last  relics  of  Marianne.  Her  three  notes 
— unluckily  they  were  all  in  my  pocket-book,  or  I 
should  have  denied  their  existence,  and  hoarded 
them  for  ever;  I  was  forced  to  put  them  up,  and 
could  not  even  kiss  them.  And  the  lock  of  hair — 
that  too  I  had  always  carried  about  me  in  the  same 
pocket-book,  which  was  now  searched  by  Madam 
with  the  most  ingratiating  virulence, — the  dear 
lock — all,  every  memento  was  torn  from  me.” 

“You  are  very  wrong,  Mr  Willoughby,  very 
blameable,”  said  Elinor,  while  her  voice,  in  spite 
of  herself,  betrayed  her  compassionate  emotion; 
“you  ought  not  to  speak  in  this  way,  either  of  Mrs 
Willoughby  or  my  sister.  You  have  made  your 
own  choice.  It  was  not  forced  on  you.  Your 
wife  has  a  claim  to  your  politeness,  to  your 
respect,  at  least.  She  must  be  attached  to  you, 
or  she  would  not  have  married  you.  To  treat  her 
with  unkindness,  to  speak  of  her  slightingly,  is  no 
atonement  to  Marianne,  nor  can  I  suppose  it  a 
relief  to  your  own  conscience.” 

“Do  not  talk  to  me  of  my  wife,”  said  he,  with 
a  heavy  sigh.  “She  does  not  deserve  your  com¬ 
passion.  She  knew  I  had  no  regard  for  her  when 
we  married.  Well,  married  we  were,  and  came 
down  to  Combe  Magna  to  be  happy,  and  after¬ 
wards  returned  to  town  to  be  gay.  And,  now  do 
you  pity  me,  Miss  Dash  wood?  or  have  I  said  all 

[229] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


this  to  no  purpose  ?  Am  I — be  it  only  one  degree 
— am  I  less  guilty  in  your  opinion  than  I  was 
before?  My  intentions  were  not  always  wrong. 
Have  I  explained  away  any  part  of  my  guilt?” 

“Yes,  you  have  certainly  removed  something — 
a  little.  You  have  proved  yourself,  on  the  whole, 
less  faulty  than  I  had  believed  you.  You  have 
proved  your  heart  less  wicked,  much  less  wicked. 
But  I  hardly  know — the  misery  that  you  have 
inflicted — I  hardly  know  what  could  have  made  it 
worse.” 

“Will  you  repeat  to  your  sister,  when  she  is 
recovered,  what  I  have  been  telling  you?  Let  me 
be  a  little  lightened  too  in  her  opinion  as  well  as 
in  yours.  You  tell  me  that  she  has  forgiven  me 
already.  Let  me  be  able  to  fancy  that  a  better 
knowledge  of  my  heart,  and  of  my  present  feel¬ 
ings,  will  draw  from  her  a  more  spontaneous, 
more  natural,  more  gentle,  less  dignified  forgive¬ 
ness.  Tell  her  of  my  misery  and  my  penitence, 
tell  her  that  my  heart  was  never  inconstant  to  her, 
and  if  you  will,  that  at  this  moment  she  is  dearer 
to  me  than  ever.” 

“I  will  tell  her  all  that  is  necessary  to  what  may 
comparatively  be  called  your  justification.  But 
you  have  not  explained  to  me  the  particular  rea¬ 
son  of  your  coming  now,  nor  how  you  heard  of 
her  illness.” 

“Last  night,  in  Drury-lane  lobby,  I  ran  against 
[230] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Sir  John  Middleton,  and  when  he  saw  who  I  was 
(for  the  first  time  these  two  months)  he 
spoke  to  me.  That  he  had  cut  me  ever  since  my 
marriage,  I  had  seen  without  surprise  or  resent¬ 
ment.  Now,  however,  his  good-natured,  honest, 
stupid  soul,  full  of  indignation  against  me,  and 
concern  f or  your  sister,  could  not  resist  the  temp¬ 
tation  of  telling  me  what  he  knew  ought  to, 
though  probably  he  did  not  think  it  would ,  vex 
me  horribly.  As  bluntly  as  he  could  speak  it, 
therefore,  he  told  me  that  Marianne  Dash  wood 
was  dying  of  a  putrid  fever  at  Cleveland — a  let¬ 
ter  that  morning  received  from  Mrs  Jennings  de¬ 
clared  her  danger  most  imminent — the  Palmers 
all  gone  off  in  a  fright,  &c.  I  was  too  much 
shocked  to  be  able  to  pass  myself  off  as  insensible, 
even  to  the  undiscerning  Sir  John.  His  heart 
was  softened  in  seeing  mine  suffer;  and  so  much 
of  his  ill-will  was  done  away,  that  when  we  parted, 
he  almost  shook  me  by  the  hand,  while  he  re¬ 
minded  me  of  an  old  promise  about  a  pointer 
puppy.  What  I  felt  on  hearing  that  your  sister 
was  dying — and  dying,  too,  believing  me  the 
greatest  villain  upon  earth,  scorning,  hating  me 
in  her  latest  moments — for  how  could  I  tell  what 
horrid  projects  might  not  have  been  imputed? — 
One  person  I  was  sure  would  represent  me  as 
capable  of  anything.  What  I  felt  was  dreadful! 
My  resolution  was  soon  made,  and  at  eight  o’clock 

[231] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


this  morning  I  was  in  my  carriage.  Now  you 
know  all.” 

Elinor  made  no  answer.  Her  thoughts  were 
silently  fixed  on  the  irreparable  injury  which  too 
early  an  independence  and  its  consequent  habits 
of  idleness,  dissipation,  and  luxury,  had  made  in 
the  mind,  the  character,  the  happiness,  of  a  man 
who,  to  every  advantage  of  person  and  talents, 
united  a  disposition  naturally  open  and  honest, 
and  a  feeling,  affectionate  temper.  The  world 
had  made  him  extravagant  and  vain;  extrava¬ 
gance  and  vanity  had  made  him  cold-hearted  and 
selfish.  Vanity,  while  seeking  its  own  guilty  tri¬ 
umph  at  the  expense  of  another,  had  involved  him 
in  a  real  attachment,  which  extravagance,  or  at 
least  its  offspring  necessity,  had  required  to  be 
sacrificed.  Each  faulty  propensity,  in  leading 
him  to  evil,  had  led  him  likewise  to  punishment. 
The  attachment  from  which  against  honour, 
against  feeling,  against  every  better  interest  he 
had  outwardly  torn  himself,  now,  when  no 
longer  allowable,  governed  every  thought;  and 
the  connection,  for  the  sake  of  which  he  had,  with 
little  scruple,  left  her  sister  to  misery,  was  likely 
to  prove  a  source  of  unhappiness  to  himself  of  a 
far  more  incurable  nature.  From  a  reverie  of 
this  kind  she  was  recalled  at  the  end  of  some  min¬ 
utes  by  Willoughby,  who,  rousing  himself  from 
a  reverie  at  least  equally  painful,  started  up  in 
preparation  for  going,  and  said — 

[232] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“There  is  no  use  in  staying  here;  I  must  be 

off.” 

“Are  you  going  back  to  town?” 

“No ;  to  Combe  Magna.  I  have  business  there ; 
from  thence  to  town  in  a  day  or  two.  Good-bye.” 

He  held  out  his  hand.  She  could  not  refuse  to 
give  him  hers ;  he  pressed  it  with  aff  ection. 

“And  you  do  think  something  better  of  me 
than  you  did?”  said  he,  letting  it  fall,  and  leaning 
against  the  mantlepiece,  as  if  forgetting  he  was 
to  go. 

Elinor  assured  him  that  she  did;  that  she  for¬ 
gave,  pitied  him,  wished  him  well — was  even  in¬ 
terested  in  his  happiness — and  added  some  gentle 
counsel  as  to  the  behaviour  most  likely  to  promote 
it.  His  answer  was  not  very  encouraging. 

“As  to  that,”  said  he,  “I  must  rub  through  the 
world  as  well  as  I  can.  Domestic  happiness  is 
out  of  the  question.  If,  however,  I  am  allowed 
to  think  that  you  and  yours  feel  an  interest  in  my 
fate  and  actions,  it  may  be  the  means — it  may  put 
me  on  my  guard — at  least,  it  may  be  something 
to  live  for.  Marianne,  to  be  sure,  is  lost  to  me  for 
ever.  Were  I  even,  by  any  blessed  chance,  at  lib¬ 
erty  again — ” 

Elinor  stopped  him  with  a  reproof. 

“Well,”  he  replied,  “once  more  good-bye.  I 
shall  now  go  away  and  live  in  dread  of  one  event.” 

“What  do  you  mean?” 


[233] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“Your  sister’s  marriage.” 

“You  are  very  wrong.  She  can  never  be  more 
lost  to  you  than  she  is  now.” 

“But  she  will  be  gained  by  some  one  else.  And 
if  that  some  one  should  be  the  very  he  whom,  of 
all  others,  I  could  least  bear —  But  I  will  not 
stay  to  rob  myself  of  all  your  compassionate 
good-will,  by  showing  that  where  I  have  most 
injured  I  can  least  forgive.  Good-bye ;  God  bless 
you!” 

And  with  these  words,  he  almost  ran  out  of  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  XLV 


ELINOR,  for  some  time  after  he  left  her, 
for  some  time  even  after  the  sound  of  his 
carriage  had  died  away,  remained  too 
much  oppressed  by  a  crowd  of  ideas,  widely  dif¬ 
fering  in  themselves,  but  of  which  sadness  was 
the  general  result,  to  think  even  of  her  sister. 

Willoughby — he  whom  only  half-an-hour  ago 
she  had  abhorred  as  the  most  worthless  of 
men — Willoughby,  in  spite  of  all  his  faults,  ex¬ 
cited  a  degree  of  commiseration  for  the  suffer¬ 
ings  produced  by  them,  which  made  her  think  of 
him  as  now  separated  for  ever  from  her  family 
with  a  tenderness,  a  regret,  rather  in  proportion, 
[234] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


as  she  soon  acknowledged  within  herself,  to  his 
wishes  than  to  his  merits.  She  felt  that  his  influ¬ 
ence  over  her  mind  was  heightened  by  circum¬ 
stances  which  ought  not  in  reason  to  have  weight ; 
by  that  person  of  uncommon  attraction — that 
open,  affectionate,  and  lively  manner  which  it 
was  no  merit  to  possess;  and  by  that  still  ardent 

love  for  Marianne,  which  it  was  not  even  inno- 

% 

cent  to  indulge.  But  she  f  elt  that  it  was  so,  long, 
long  before  she  could  feel  his  influence  less. 

When  at  last  she  returned  to  the  unconscious 
Marianne,  she  found  her  just  awaking,  re¬ 
freshed  by  so  long  and  sweet  a  sleep  to  the  extent 
of  her  hopes.  Elinor’s  heart  was  full.  The  past, 
the  present,  the  future — Willoughby’s  visit, 
Marianne’s  safety,  and  her  mother’s  expected 
arrival,  threw  her  altogether  into  an  agitation  of 
spirits  which  kept  off  every  indication  of  f  atigue, 
and  made  her  only  fearful  of  betraying  herself 
to  her  sister.  Short  was  the  time,  however,  in 
which  that  fear  could  affect  her,  for  within  half- 
an-hour  after  Willoughby’s  leaving  the  house, 
she  was  again  called  down-stairs  by  the  sound  of 
another  carriage.  Eager  to  save  her  mother  from 
every  unnecessary  moment’s  horrible  suspense, 
she  ran  immediately  into  the  hall,  and  reached  the 
outward  door  just  in  time  to  receive  and  support 
her  as  she  entered  it. 

Mrs  Dashwood,  whose  terror  as  they  drew  near 

[235] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


the  house  had  produced  almost  the  conviction  of 
Marianne’s  being  no  more,  had  no  voice  to  in¬ 
quire  after  her,  no  voice  even  for  Elinor;  but  she, 
waiting  neither  for  salutation  nor  inquiry,  in¬ 
stantly  gave  the  joyful  relief; — and  her  mother, 
catching  it  with  all  her  usual  warmth,  was  in  a 
moment  as  much  overcome  by  her  happiness  as 
she  had  been  before  by  her  fears.  She  was  sup¬ 
ported  into  the  drawing-room  between  her  daugh¬ 
ter  and  her  friend;  and  there,  shedding  tears  of 
joy,  though  still  unable  to  speak,  embraced  Eli¬ 
nor  again  and  again,  turning  from  her  at  inter¬ 
vals  to  press  Colonel  Brandon’s  hand,  with  a  look 
which  spoke  at  once  her  gratitude,  and  her  con¬ 
viction  of  his  sharing  with  herself  in  the  bliss  of 
the  moment.  He  shared  it,  however,  in  a  silence 
even  greater  than  her  own. 

As  soon  as  Mrs  Dashwood  had  recovered  her¬ 
self,  to  see  Marianne  was  her  first  desire ;  and  in 
two  minutes  she  was  with  her  beloved  child,  ren¬ 
dered  dearer  to  her  than  ever  by  absence,  unhap¬ 
piness  and  danger.  Elinor’s  delight,  as  she  saw 
what  each  felt  in  the  meeting,  was  only  checked 
by  an  apprehension  of  its  robbing  Marianne  of 
further  sleep:  but  Mrs  Dashwood  could  be  calm, 
could  be  even  prudent,  when  the  life  of  a  child 
was  at  stake,  and  Marianne,  satisfied  in  knowing 
her  mother  was  near  her,  and  conscious  of  being 
too  weak  for  conversation,  submitted  readily  to 
[236] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


the  silence  and  quiet  prescribed  by  every  nurse 
around  her.  Mrs  Dashwood  would  sit  up  with 
her  all  night,  and  Elinor,  in  compliance  with  her 
mother’s  entreaty,  went  to  bed.  But  the  rest, 
which  one  night  entirely  sleepless  and  many  hours 
of  the  most  wearing  anxiety  seemed  to  make 
requisite,  was  kept  off  by  irritation  of  spirits. 
Willoughby,  “poor  Willoughby,”  as  she  now 
allowed  herself  to  call  him,  was  constantly  in  her 
thoughts;  she  would  not  but  have  heard  his  vin¬ 
dication  for  the  world,  and  now  blamed,  now 
acquitted  herself,  for  having  judged  him  so 
harshly  before.  But  her  promise  of  relating  it 
to  her  sister  was  invariably  painful.  She  dreaded 
the  performance  of  it,  dreaded  what  its  effect  on 
Marianne  might  be;  doubted  whether,  after  such 
an  explanation,  she  could  ever  be  happy  with 
another,  and  for  a  moment,  wished  Willoughby  a 
widower;  then  remembering  Colonel  Brandon, 
reproved  herself,  felt  that  to  his  sufferings  and 
his  constancy,  far  more  than  to  his  rival’s,  the 
reward  of  her  sister  was  due,  and  wished  anything 
rather  than  Mrs  Willoughby’s  death. 

The  shock  of  Colonel  Brandon’s  errand  at  Bar¬ 
ton  had  been  much  softened  to  Mrs  Dashwood  by 
her  own  previous  alarm;  for  so  great  was  her  un¬ 
easiness  about  Marianne,  that  she  had  already 
determined  to  set  out  for  Cleveland  on  that  very 
day,  without  waiting  for  any  farther  intelligence, 

[237] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

and  had  so  far  settled  her  journey  before  his  ar¬ 
rival,  that  the  Careys  were  then  expected  every 
moment  to  fetch  Margaret  away,  as  her  mother 
was  unwilling  to  take  her  where  there  might  be 
inf  ection. 

Marianne  continued  to  mend  every  day,  and 
the  brilliant  cheerfulness  of  Mrs  Dash  wood’s 
looks  and  spirits  proved  her  to  be,  as  she  repeat¬ 
edly  declared  herself,  one  of  the  happiest  women 
in  the  world.  Elinor  could  not  hear  the  declara¬ 
tion,  nor  witness  its  proofs,  without  sometimes 
wondering  whether  her  mother  ever  recollected 
Edward.  But  Mrs  Dashwood,  trusting  to  the 
temperate  account  of  her  own  disappointment 
which  Elinor  had  sent  her,  was  led  away  by  the 
exuberance  of  her  joy  to  think  only  of  what 
would  increase  it.  Marianne  was  restored  to 
her  from  a  danger  in  which,  as  she  now  began  to 
feel,  her  own  mistaken  judgment  in  encouraging 
the  unfortunate  attachment  to  Willoughby  had 
contributed  to  place  her;  and  in  her  recovery  she 
had  yet  another  source  of  joy  unthought  of  by 
Elinor.  It  was  thus  imparted  to  her,  as  soon  as 
any  opportunity  of  private  conference  between 
them  occurred. 

“At  last  we  are  alone.  My  Elinor,  you  do  not 
yet  know  all  my  happiness.  Colonel  Brandon 
loves  Marianne;  he  has  told  me  so  himself.” 

Her  daughter,  feeling  by  turns  both  pleased 

[238] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


and  pained,  surprised  and  not  surprised,  was  all 
silent  attention. 

“You  are  never  like  me,  dear  Elinor,  or  I 
should  wonder  at  your  composure  now.  Had  I 
sat  down  to  wish  for  any  possible  good  to  my 
family,  I  should  have  fixed  on  Colonel  Brandon’s 
marrying  one  of  you  as  the  object  most  desirable. 
And  I  believe  Marianne  will  be  the  most  happy 
with  him  of  the  two.” 

Elinor  was  half  inclined  to  ask  her  reason  for 
thinking  so,  because  satisfied  that  none  founded 
on  an  impartial  consideration  of  their  age,  char¬ 
acters,  or  feelings,  could  be  given; — but  her 
mother  must  always  be  carried  away  by  her  im¬ 
agination  on  any  interesting  subject,  and  there¬ 
fore,  instead  of  an  inquiry,  she  passed  it  off  with 
a  smile. 

“He  opened  his  whole  heart  to  me  yesterday 
as  we  travelled.  It  came  out  quite  unawares, 
quite  undesignedly.  I,  you  may  well  believe, 
could  talk  of  nothing  but  my  child ; — he  could  not 
conceal  his  distress;  I  saw  that  it  equalled  my 
own,  and  he,  perhaps,  thinking  that  mere  friend¬ 
ship,  as  the  world  now  goes,  would  not  justify  so 
warm  a  sympathy — or  rather  not  thinking  at  all, 
I  suppose — giving  way  to  irresistible  feelings, 
made  me  acquainted  with  his  earnest,  tender,  con¬ 
stant  affection  for  Marianne.  He  has  loved  her, 
my  Elinor,  ever  since  the  first  moment  of  seeing 
her.” 


[239] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Here,  however,  Elinor  perceived,  not  the 
language,  not  the  professions  of  Colonel  Bran¬ 
don,  but  the  natural  embellishments  of  her 
mother’s  active  fancy,  which  fashioned  every¬ 
thing  delightful  to  her,  as  it  chose. 

“His  regard  for  her,  infinitely  surpassing  any¬ 
thing  that  Willoughby  ever  felt  or  feigned,  as 
much  more  warm,  as  more  sincere  or  constant — 
whichever  we  are  to  call  it — has  subsisted  through 
all  the  knowledge  of  dear  Marianne’s  unhappy 
prepossession  for  that  worthless  young  man! — 
and  without  selfishness — without  encouraging  a 
hope ! — could  he  have  seen  her  happy  with 
another?  Such  a  noble  mind! — such  openness, 
such  sincerity ! — no  one  can  be  deceived  in  him” 
“Colonel  Brandon’s  character,”  said  Elinor, 
“as  an  excellent  man,  is  well  established.” 

“I  know  it  is,”  replied  her  mother  seriously,  “or 
after  such  a  warning,  I  should  be  the  last  to  en¬ 
courage  such  affection,  or  even  to  be  pleased  by 
it.  But  his  coming  for  me  as  he  did,  with  such 
active,  such  ready  friendship,  is  enough  to  prove 
him  one  of  the  worthiest  of  men.” 

“His  character,  however,”  answered  Elinor, 
“does  not  rest  on  one  act  of  kindness,  to  which  his 
affection  for  Marianne,  were  humanity  out  of 
the  case,  would  have  prompted  him.  To  Mrs 
Jennings,  to  the  Middletons,  he  had  been  long 
and  intimately  known;  they  equally  love  and 
[240] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


respect  him:  and  even  my  knowledge  of  him, 
though  lately  acquired,  is  very  considerable;  and 
so  highly  do  I  value  and  esteem  him,  that  if  Mari¬ 
anne  can  be  happy  with  him,  I  shall  be  as  ready 
as  yourself  to  think  our  connection  the  greatest 
blessing  to  us  in  the  world.  What  answer  did  you 
give  him?  Did  you  allow  him  to  hope?” 

“Oh!  my  love,  I  could  not  then  talk  of  hope  to 
him  or  to  myself.  Marianne  might  at  that 
moment  be  dying.  But  he  did  not  ask  for  hope 
or  encouragement.  His  was  an  involuntary  con¬ 
fidence,  an  irrepressible  effusion  to  a  soothing 
friend, — not  an  application  to  a  parent.  Yet 
after  a  time  I  did  say,  for  at  first  I  was  quite 
overcome,  that  if  she  lived,  as  I  trusted  she  might, 
my  greatest  happiness  would  lie  in  promoting 
their  marriage;  and  since  our  arrival,  since  our 
delightful  security,  I  have  repeated  it  to  him 
more  fully,  have  given  him  every  encouragement 
in  my  power.  Time,  a  very  little  time,  I  tell  him, 
will  do  everything; — Marianne’s  heart  is  not  to 
be  wasted  for  ever  on  such  a  man  as  Willoughby. 
His  own  merits  must  soon  secure  it.” 

“To  judge  from  the  Colonel’s  spirits,  however, 
you  have  not  yet  made  him  equally  sanguine.” 

“No.  He  thinks  Marianne’s  affection  too 
deeply  rooted  for  any  change  in  it  under  a  great 
length  of  time;  and  even  supposing  her  heart 
again  free,  is  too  diffident  of  himself  to  believe, 

[241] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


that  with  such  a  difference  of  age  and  disposition, 
he  could  ever  attach  her.  There,  however,  he  is 
quite  mistaken.  His  age  is  only  so  much  beyond 
hers  as  to  be  an  advantage,  as  to  make  his  char¬ 
acter  and  principles  fixed;  and  his  disposition,  I 
am  well  convinced,  is  exactly  the  very  one  to 
make  your  sister  happy.  And  his  person,  his 
manners  too,  are  all  in  his  favour.  My  partiality 
does  not  blind  me;  he  certainly  is  not  so  hand¬ 
some  as  Willoughby;  but,  at  the  same  time,  there 
is  something  much  more  pleasing  in  his  coun¬ 
tenance.  There  was  always  a  something,  if  you 
remember,  in  Willoughby’s  eyes  at  times,  which  I 
did  not  like.” 

Elinor  could  not  remember  it ;  but  her  mother, 
without  waiting  for  her  assent,  continued — 

“And  his  manners,  the  Colonel’s  manners,  are 
not  only  more  pleasing  to  me  than  Willoughby’s 
ever  were,  but  they  are  of  a  kind  I  well  know  to 
be  more  solidly  attaching  to  Marianne.  Their 
gentleness,  their  genuine  attention  to  other 
people,  and  their  manly  unstudied  simplicity,  is 
much  more  accordant  with  her  real  disposition, 
than  the  liveliness,  often  artificial,  and  often  ill- 
timed,  of  the  other.  I  am  very  sure  myself,  that 
had  Willoughby  turned  out  as  really  amiable  as 
he  has  proved  himself  the  contrary,  Marianne 
would  yet  never  have  been  so  happy  with  him ,  as 
she  will  be  with  Colonel  Brandon.” 

[242] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


She  paused.  Her  daughter  could  not  quite 
agree  with  her,  but  her  dissent  was  not  heard,  and 
therefore  gave  no  offence. 

“At  Delaford,  she  will  be  within  an  easy  dis¬ 
tance  of  me,”  added  Mrs  Dash  wood,  “even  if  I 
remain  at  Barton;  and  in  all  probability,  for  I 
hear  it  is  a  large  village — indeed  there  certainly 
must  be  some  small  house  or  cottage  close  by,  that 
would  suit  us  quite  as  well  as  our  present  situa¬ 
tion.” 

Poor  Elinor!  here  was  a  new  scheme  for 
getting  her  to  Delaford!  but  her  spirit  was  stub¬ 
born. 

“His  fortune  too!  for  at  my  time  of  life,  you 
know,  everybody  cares  about  that ;  and  though  I 
neither  know,  nor  desire  to  know,  what  it  really 
is,  I  am  sure  it  must  be  a  good  one.” 

Here  they  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of 
a  third  person,  and  Elinor  withdrew  to  think  it 
all  over  in  private,  to  wish  success  to  her  friend, 
and  yet,  in  wishing,  to  feel  a  pang  for  Wil¬ 
loughby, 


[243] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


CHAPTER  XL VI 

MARIANNE’S  illness,  though  weakening 
in  its  kind,  had  not  been  long  enough  to 
make  her  recovery  slow ;  and  with  youth, 
natural  strength,  and  her  mother’s  presence  in 
aid,  it  proceeded  so  smoothly  as  to  enable  her  to 
remove,  within  four  days  after  the  arrival  of  the 
latter,  into  Mrs  Palmer’s  dressing-room.  When 
there,  at  her  own  particular  request,  for  she  was 
impatient  to  pour  forth  her  thanks  to  him  for 
fetching  her  mother,  Colonel  Brandon  was  in¬ 
vited  to  visit  her. 

His  emotion  in  entering  the  room,  in  seeing  her 
altered  looks,  and  in  receiving  the  pale  hand 
which  she  immediately  held  out  to  him,  was  such 
as  in  Elinor’s  conjecture,  must  arise  from  some¬ 
thing  more  than  his  affection  for  Marianne,  or 
the  consciousness  of  its  being  known  to  others; 
and  she  soon  discovered  in  his  melancholy  eye  and 
varying  complexion  as  he  looked  at  her  sister,  the 
probable  recurrence  of  many  past  scenes  of  mis¬ 
ery  to  his  mind,  brought  back  by  that  resem¬ 
blance  between  Marianne  and  Eliza  already  ac-  " 
knowledged,  and  now  strengthened  by  the  hol¬ 
low  eye,  the  sickly  skin,  the  posture  of  reclining 
weakness,  and  the  warm  acknowledgment  of 
peculiar  obligation. 

[244] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Mrs  Dashwood,  not  less  watchful  of  what 
passed  than  her  daughter,  but  with  a  mind  very 
differently  influenced,  and  therefore  watching  to 
very  diff  erent  eff  ect,  saw  nothing  in  the  Colonel’s 
behaviour  but  what  arose  from  the  most  simple 
and  self-evident  sensations,  while  in  the  actions 
and  words  of  Marianne  she  persuaded  herself  to 
think  that  something  more  than  gratitude  already 
dawned. 

At  the  end  of  another  day  or  two,  Marianne 
growing  visibly  stronger  every  twelve  hours,  Mrs. 
Dashwood,  urged  equally  by  her  own  and  her 
daughter’s  wishes,  began  to  talk  of  removing  to 
Barton.  On  her  measures  depended  those  of  her 
two  friends;  Mrs  Jennings  could  not  quit  Cleve¬ 
land  during  the  Dash  woods’  stay,  and  Colonel 
Brandon  was  soon  brought  by  their  united  re¬ 
quest,  to  consider  his  own  abode  there  as  equally 
determinate,  if  not  equally  indispensable.  At  his 
and  Mrs  Jennings’s  united  request  in  return,  Mrs 
Dashwood  was  prevailed  on  to  accept  the  use  of 
his  carriage  on  her  journey  back,  for  the  better 
accommodation  of  her  sick  child;  and  the  Colonel, 
at  the  joint  invitation  of  Mrs  Dashwood  and 
Mrs  Jennings,  whose  active  good-nature  made 
her  friendly  and  hospitable  for  other  people  as 
well  as  herself,  engaged  with  pleasure  to  redeem 
it  by  a  visit  at  the  cottage,  in  the  course  of  a  few 
weeks. 


[245] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

The  day  of  separation  and  departure  arrived; 
and  Marianne,  after  taking  so  particular  and 
lengthened  a  leave  of  Mrs  Jennings — one  so 
earnestly  grateful,  so  full  of  respect  and  kind 
wishes  as  seemed  due  to  her  own  heart  from  a 
secret  acknowledgment  of  past  inattention — and 
bidding  Colonel  Brandon  farewell  with  the  cor¬ 
diality  of  a  friend,  was  carefully  assisted  by  him 
into  the  carriage,  of  which  he  seemed  anxious  that 
she  should  engross  at  least  half.  Mrs  Dashwood 
and  Elinor  then  followed,  and  the  others  were 
left  by  themselves,  to  talk  of  the  travellers,  and 
feel  their  own  dullness,  till  Mrs  Jennings  was 
summoned  to  her  chaise  to  take  comfort  in  the 
gossip  of  her  maid  for  the  loss  of  her  two  young 
companions;  and  Colonel  Brandon  immediately 
afterwards  took  his  solitary  way  to  Delaford. 

The  Dashwoods  were  two  days  on  the  road,  and 
Marianne  bore  her  journey  on  both  without  essen¬ 
tial  fatigue.  Everything  that  the  most  zealous 
aff  ection,  the  most  solicitous  care,  could  do  to  ren¬ 
der  her  comfortable,  was  the  office  of  each  watch¬ 
ful  companion,  and  each  found  their  reward  in 
her  bodily  ease  and  her  calmness  of  spirits.  To 
Elinor,  the  observation  of  the  latter  was  par¬ 
ticularly  grateful.  She,  who  had  seen  her  week 
after  week  so  constantly  suffering,  oppressed  by 
anguish  of  heart  which  she  had  neither  courage 
to  speak  of,  nor  fortitude  to  conceal,  now  saw, 
[246] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


with  a  joy  which  no  other  could  equally  share, 
an  apparent  composure  of  mind,  which  in  being 
the  result  as  she  trusted  of  serious  reflection,  must 
eventually  lead  her  to  contentment  and  cheerful¬ 
ness. 

As  they  approached  Barton,  indeed,  and  en¬ 
tered  on  scenes  of  which  every  field  and  every 
tree  brought  some  peculiar,  some  painful  recol¬ 
lection,  she  grew  silent  and  thoughtful,  and  turn¬ 
ing  away  her  face  from  their  notice,  sat  earnestly 
gazing  through  the  window.  But  here,  Elinor 
could  neither  wonder  nor  blame;  and  when  she 
saw,  as  she  assisted  Marianne  from  the  carriage, 
that  she  had  been  crying,  she  saw  only  an  emotion 
too  natural  in  itself  to  raise  anything  less  tender 
than  pity,  and  in  its  unobtrusiveness  entitled  to 
praise.  In  the  whole  of  her  subsequent  manner, 
she  traced  the  direction  of  a  mind  awakened  to 
reasonable  exertion;  for  no  sooner  had  they  en¬ 
tered  their  common  sitting-room,  than  Marianne 
turned  her  eyes  around  it  with  a  look  of  resolute 
firmness,  as  if  determined  at  once  to  accustom 
herself  to  the  sight  of  every  object  with  which 
the  remembrance  of  Willoughby  could  be  con¬ 
nected.  She  said  little,  but  every  sentence  aimed 
at  cheerfulness,  and  though  a  sigh  sometimes 
escaped  her,  it  never  passed  away  without  the 
atonement  of  a  smile.  After  dinner,  she  would 
try  her  pianoforte.  She  went  to  it;  but  the  music 

[247] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


on  which  her  eye  first  rested  was  an  opera,  pro¬ 
cured  for  her  by  Willoughby,  containing  some  of 
their  favourite  duets,  and  bearing  on  its  outward 
leaf  her  own  name  in  his  handwriting.  That 
would  not  do.  She  shook  her  head,  put  the  music 
aside,  and,  after  running  over  the  keys  for  a  min¬ 
ute,  complained  of  feebleness  in  her  fingers,  and 
closed  the  instrument  again;  declaring,  however, 
with  firmness  as  she  did  so,  that  she  should  in 
future  practise  much. 

The  next  morning  produced  no  abatement  in 
these  happy  symptoms.  On  the  contrary,  with  a 
mind  and  body  alike  strengthened  by  rest,  she 
looked  and  spoke  with  more  genuine  spirit,  antici¬ 
pating  the  pleasure  of  Margaret’s  return,  and 
talking  of  the  dear  family  party  which  would 
then  be  restored,  of  their  mutual  pursuits  and 
cheerful  society  as  the  only  happiness  worth  a 
wish. 

“When  the  weather  is  settled,  and  I  have  re¬ 
covered  my  strength,”  said  she,  “we  will  take  long 
walks  together  every  day.  We  will  walk  to  the 
farm  at  the  edge  of  the  down,  and  see  how  the 
children  go  on;  we  will  walk  to  Sir  John’s  new 
plantations  at  Barton  Cross,  and  the  Abbeyland; 
and  we  will  often  go  to  the  old  ruins  of  the 
Priory,  and  try  to  trace  its  foundations  as  far  as 
we  are  told  they  once  reached.  I  know  we  shall 
be  happy.  I  know  the  summer  will  pass  happily 
[248] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


away.  I  mean  never  to  be  later  in  rising  than  six, 
and  from  that  time  till  dinner  I  shall  divide  every 
moment  between  music  and  reading.  I  have 
formed  my  plan,  and  am  determined  to  enter  on 
a  course  of  serious  study.  Our  own  library  is  too 
well  known  to  me  to  be  resorted  to  for  anything 
beyond  mere  amusement.  But  there  are  many 
works  well  worth  reading  at  the  Park ;  and  there 
are  others  of  more  modern  production  which  I 
know  I  can  borrow  of  Colonel  Brandon.  By 
reading  only  six  hours  a  day,  I  shall  gain  in  the 
course  of  a  twelvemonth  a  great  deal  of  instruc¬ 
tion  which  I  now  feel  myself  to  want.” 

Elinor  honoured  her  for  a  plan  which  origi¬ 
nated  so  nobly  as  this ;  though  smiling  to  see  the 
same  eager  fancy  which  had  been  leading  her  to 
the  extreme  of  languid  indolence  and  selfish  re¬ 
pining,  now  at  work  in  introducing  excess  into 
a  scheme  of  such  rational  employment  and  virtu¬ 
ous  self-controul.  Her  smile,  however,  changed 
to  a  sigh  when  she  remembered  that  her  promise 
to  Willoughby  was  yet  unfulfilled,  and  feared  she 
had  that  to  communicate  which  might  again  un¬ 
settle  the  mind  of  Marianne,  and  ruin  at  least  for 
a  time  this  fair  prospect  of  busy  tranquillity. 
Willing  therefore  to  delay  the  evil  hour,  she  re¬ 
solved  to  wait  till  her  sister’s  health  were  more 
secure,  before  she  appointed  it.  But  the  resolu¬ 
tion  was  made  only  to  be  broken. 


[249J 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Marianne  had  been  two  or  three  days  at  home, 
before  the  weather  was  fine  enough  for  an  invalid 
like  herself  to  venture  out.  But  at  last  a  soft, 
genial  morning  appeared — such  as  might  tempt 
the  daughter’s  wishes  and  the  mother’s  confi¬ 
dence;  and  Marianne,  leaning  on  Elinor’s  arm, 
was  authorised  to  walk  as  long  as  she  could  with¬ 
out  fatigue,  in  the  lane  before  the  house. 

The  sisters  set  out  at  a  pace  slow  as  the  feeble¬ 
ness  of  Marianne  in  an  exercise  hitherto  untried 
since  her  illness  required; — and  they  had  ad¬ 
vanced  only  so  far  beyond  the  house  as  to  admit 
a  full  view  of  the  hill,  the  important  hill  behind, 
when,  pausing  with  her  eyes  turned  towards  it, 
Marianne  calmly  said — 

“There,  exactly  there” — pointing  with  one 
hand,”  on  that  projecting  mound — there  I  fell; 
and  there  I  first  saw  Willoughby.” 

Her  voice  sunk  with  the  word,  but  presently 
reviving,  she  added — 

“I  am  thankful  to  find  that  I  can  look  with  so 
little  pain  on  the  spot ! — shall  we  ever  talk  on  that 
subject,  Elinor?” — hesitatingly  it  was  said. — “Or 
will  it  be  wrong? — I  can  talk  of  it  now,  I  hope, 
as  I  ought  to  do.” 

Elinor  tenderly  invited  her  to  be  open. 

“As  for  regret,”  said  Marianne,  “I  have  done 
with  that,  as  far  as  he  is  concerned.  I  do  not 
mean  to  talk  to  you  of  what  my  feelings  have 
[250] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


been  for  him,  but  what  they  are  now.  At  pres¬ 
ent,  if  I  could  be  satisfied  on  one  point — if  I  could 
be  allowed  to  think  that  he  was  not  always  acting 
a  part,  not  always  deceiving  me; — but  above  all, 
if  I  could  be  assured  that  he  never  was  so  very 
wicked  as  my  fears  have  sometimes  fancied  him, 
since  the  story  of  that  unfortunate  girl — ” 

She  stopt.  Elinor  joyfully  treasured  her 
words  as  she  answered — 

“If  you  could  be  assured  of  that,  you  think  you 
should  be  easy?” 

“Yes.  My  peace  of  mind  is  doubly  involved 
in  it; — for  not  only  is  it  horrible  to  suspect  a  per¬ 
son,  who  has  been  what  he  has  been  to  me,  of  such 
designs, — but  what  must  it  make  me  to  appear 
myself?  What  in  a  situation  like  mine,  but  a 
most  shamefully  unguarded  affection  could  ex¬ 
pose  me  to — ” 

“How  then,”  asked  her  sister,  “would  you  ac¬ 
count  for  his  behaviour?” 

“I  would  suppose  him, — Oh!  how  gladly  would 
I  suppose  him,  only  fickle — very,  very  fickle.” 

Elinor  said  no  more.  She  was  debating  within 
herself  on  the  eligibility  of  beginning  her  story 
directly,  or  postponing  it  till  Marianne  were  in 
stronger  health; — and  they  crept  on  for  a  few 
minutes  in  silence. 

“I  am  not  wishing  him  too  much  good,”  said 
Marianne  at  last  with  a  sigh,  “when  I  wish  his 

[251] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


secret  reflections  may  be  no  more  unpleasant  than 
my  own.  He  will  suffer  enough  in  them.” 

“Do  you  compare  your  conduct  with  his?” 

“No.  I  compare  it  with  what  it  ought  to  have 
been;  I  compare  it  with  yours.” 

“Our  situations  have  borne  little  resemblance.” 

“They  have  borne  more  than  our  conduct.  Do 
not,  my  dearest  Elinor,  let  your  kindness  defend 
what  I  know  your  judgment  must  censure.  My 
illness  has  made  me  think — it  has  given  me  leisure 
and  calmness  for  serious  recollection.  Long 
before  I  was  enough  recovered  to  talk,  I  was 
perfectly  able  to  reflect.  I  considered  the  past: 
I  saw  in  my  own  behaviour,  since  the  beginning 
of  our  acquaintance  with  him  last  autumn,  noth¬ 
ing  but  a  series  of  imprudence  towards  myself, 
and  want  of  kindness  to  others.  I  saw  that  my 
own  feelings  had  prepared  my  sufferings,  and 
that  my  want  of  fortitude  under  them  had  almost 
led  me  to  the  grave.  My  illness,  I  well  knew,  had 
been  entirely  brought  on  by  myself,  by  such  neg¬ 
ligence  of  my  own  health  as  I  felt  even  at  the 
time  to  be  wrong.  Had  I  died,  it  would  have 
been  self-destruction.  I  did  not  knowT  my  danger 
till  the  danger  was  removed;  but  with  such  feel¬ 
ings  as  these  reflections  gave  me,  I  wonder  at  my 
recovery, — wonder  that  the  very  eagerness  of  my 
desire  to  live,  to  have  time  for  atonement  to  my 
God,  and  to  you  all,  did  not  kill  me  at  once.  Had 
[252] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

I  died,  in  what  peculiar  misery  should  I  have  left 
you,  my  nurse,  my  friend,  my  sister! — You,  who 
had  seen  all  the  fretful  selfishness  of  my  latter 
days;  who  had  known  all  the  murmurings  of  my 
heart ! — How  should  I  have  lived  in  your  remem¬ 
brance! — My  mother  too!  How  could  you  have 
consoled  her! — I  cannot  express  my  own  abhor¬ 
rence  of  myself.  Whenever  I  looked  towards 
the  past,  I  saw  some  duty  neglected,  or  some  fail¬ 
ing  indulged.  Everybody  seemed  injured  by 
me.  The  kindness,  the  unceasing  kindness  of 
Mrs  Jennings,  I  had  repaid  with  ungrateful  con¬ 
tempt.  To  the  Middletons,  the  Palmers,  the 
Steeles,  to  every  common  acquaintance  even,  I 
had  been  insolent  and  unjust;  with  an  heart  hard¬ 
ened  against  their  merits,  and  a  temper  irritated 
by  their  very  attention.  To  John,  to  Fanny, — 

yes,  even  to  them,  little  as  they  deserve,  I  had 
given  less  than  their  due.  But  you, — you  above 
all,  above  my  mother,  had  been  wronged  by  me. 
I,  and  only  I,  knew  your  heart  and  its  sorrows; 

yet,  to  what  did  it  influence  me? — not  to  any  com¬ 
passion  that  could  benefit  you  or  myself.  Your 
example  was  before  me:  but  to  what  avail?  Was 
I  more  considerate  of  you  and  your  comfort?  Did 
I  imitate  your  forbearance,  or  lessen  your  re¬ 
straints,  by  taking  any  part  in  those  offices  of 
general  complaisance  or  particular  gratitude 
which  you  had  hitherto  been  left  to  discharge 

[253] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


alone?  No; — not  less  when  I  knew  you  to  be 
unhappy,  than  when  I  had  believed  you  at  ease, 
did  I  turn  away  from  every  exertion  of  duty  or 
friendship;  scarcely  allowed  sorrow  to  exist  but 
with  me,  regretting  only  that  heart  which  deserted 
and  wronged  me,  and  leaving  you,  for  whom  I 
professed  an  unbounded  affection,  to  be  miser¬ 
able  for  my  sake.” 

Here  ceased  the  rapid  flow  of  her  self-reprov- 
ing  spirit ;  and  Elinor,  impatient  to  sooth,  though 
too  honest  to  flatter,  gave  her  instantly  that 
praise  and  support  which  her  frankness  and  her 
contrition  so  well  deserved.  Marianne  pressed 
her  hand  and  replied — 

“You  are  very  good.  The  future  must  be  my 
proof.  I  have  laid  down  my  plan,  and  if  I  am 
capable  of  adhering  to  it,  my  feelings  shall  be 
governed  and  my  temper  improved.  They  shall 
no  longer  worry  others,  nor  torture  myself.  I 
shall  now  live  solely  for  my  family.  You,  my 
mother,  and  Margaret,  must  henceforth  be  all  the 
world  to  me ;  you  will  share  my  aff  ections  entirely 
between  you.  From  you,  from  my  home,  I  shall 
never  again  have  the  smallest  incitement  to  move ; 
and  if  I  do  mix  in  other  society,  it  will  be  only  to 
shew  that  my  spirit  is  humbled,  my  heart 
amended,  and  that  I  can  practise  the  civilities,  the 
lesser  duties  of  life,  with  gentleness  and  forbear¬ 
ance.  As  for  Willoughby,  to  say  that  I  shall 
[254] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


soorx  or  that  I  shall  ever  forgot  him,  would  be 
idle.  His  remembrance  can  be  overcome  by  no 
change  of  circumstances  or  opinions.  But  it  shall 
be  regulated,  it  shall  be  checked  by  religion,  by 
reason,  by  constant  employment.” 

She  paused,  and  added  in  a  lower  voice,  “If  I 
could  but  know  his  heart,  everything  would  be¬ 
come  easy.” 

Elinor,  who  had  now  been  some  time  reflecting 
on  the  propriety  or  impropriety  of  speedily  haz¬ 
arding  her  narration,  without  feeling  at  all  nearer 
decision  than  at  first,  heard  this;  and  perceiving 
that  as  reflection  did  nothing,  resolution  must  do 
all,  soon  found  herself  leading  to  the  fact. 

She  managed  the  recital,  as  she  hoped,  with 
address;  prepared  her  anxious  listener  with  cau¬ 
tion  ;  related  simply  and  honestly  the  chief  points 
on  which  Willoughby  grounded  his  apology;  did 
justice  to  his  repentance,  and  softened  only  his 
protestations  of  present  regard.  Marianne  said 
not  a  word;  she  trembled,  her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  ground,  and  her  lips  became  whiter  than  even 
sickness  had  left  them.  A  thousand  inquiries 
sprung  up  from  her  heart,  but  she  dared  not  urge 
one.  She  caught  every  syllable  with  panting 
eagerness;  her  hand,  unknowingly  to  herself, 
closely  pressed  her  sister’s,  and  tears  covered  her 
cheeks. 

Elinor,  dreading  her  being  tired,  led  her 

[255] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


towards  home;  and  till  they  reached  the  door  of 
the  cottage,  easily  conjecturing  what  her  curi¬ 
osity  must  be,  though  no  question  was  suff ered  to 
speak  it,  talked  of  nothing  but  Willoughby,  and 
their  conversation  together;  and  was  carefully 
minute  in  every  particular  of  speech  and  look, 
where  minuteness  could  be  safely  indulged.  As 
soon  as  they  entered  the  house,  Marianne,  with  a 
kiss  of  gratitude,  and  these  two  words  just  articu¬ 
late  through  her  tears,  “Tell  mama,”  withdrew 
from  her  sister  and  walked  slowly  upstairs.  Eli¬ 
nor  would  not  attempt  to  disturb  a  solitude  so 
reasonable  as  what  she  now  sought;  and  with  a 
mind  anxiously  pre-arranging  its  result,  and  a 
resolution  of  reviving  the  subject  again  should 
Marianne  fail  to  do  it,  she  turned  into  the  par¬ 
lour  to  fulfil  her  parting  injunction. 


CHAPTER  XL VII 

MRS  DASHWOOD  did  not  hear  unmoved 
the  vindication  of  her  former  favourite. 
She  rejoiced  in  his  being  cleared  from 
some  part  of  his  imputed  guilt;  she  was  sorry  for 
him ;  she  wished  him  happy.  But  the  f eelings  of 
the  past  could  not  be  recalled.  Nothing  could  re¬ 
store  him  with  a  faith  unbroken — a  character  un¬ 
blemished,  to  Marianne.  Nothing  could  do  away 
[256] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


the  knowledge  of  what  the  latter  had  suffered 
through  his  means,  nor  remove  the  guilt  of  his 
conduct  towards  Eliza.  Nothing  could  replace 
him,  therefore,  in  her  former  esteem,  nor  injure 
the  interest  of  Colonel  Brandon. 

Had  Mrs  Dashwood,  like  her  daughter,  heard 
Willoughby’s  story  from  himself — had  she  wit¬ 
nessed  his  distress,  and  been  under  the  influence 
of  his  countenance  and  his  manner,  it  is  probable 
that  her  compassion  would  have  been  greater. 
But  it  was  neither  in  Elinor’s  power,  nor  in  her 
wish,  to  rouse  such  feelings  in  another,  by  her  re¬ 
tailed  explanation,  as  had  at  first  been  called 
forth  in  herself.  Reflection  had  given  calmness 
to  her  judgment,  and  sobered  her  own  opinion  of 
Willoughby’s  deserts;  she  wished,  therefore,  to 
declare  only  the  simple  truth,  and  lay  open  such 
facts  as  were  really  due  to  his  character,  without 
any  embellishment  of  tenderness  to  lead  the  fancy 
astray. 

In  the  evening,  when  they  were  all  there  to¬ 
gether,  Marianne  began  voluntarily  to  speak  of 
him  again;  but  that  it  was  not  without  an  effort, 
the  restless,  unquiet  thoughtfulness  in  which  she 
had  been  for  some  time  previously  sitting,  her 
rising  colour  as  she  spoke,  and  her  unsteady  voice, 
plainly  shewed. 

“I  wish  to  assure  you  both,”  said  she,  “that  I 
see  everything — as  you  can  desire  me  to  do.” 

[257] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

Mrs  Dash  wood  would  have  interrupted  her  in¬ 
stantly  with  soothing  tenderness,  had  not  Elinor, 
who  really  wished  to  hear  her  sister’s  unbiassed 
opinion,  by  an  eager  sign,  engaged  her  silence. 
Marianne  slowly  continued — 

“It  is  a  great  relief  to  me — what  Elinor  told 
me  this  morning — I  have  now  heard  exactly  what 
I  wished  to  hear.”  For  some  moments  her  voice 
was  lost;  but,  recovering  herself,  she  added,  and 
with  greater  calmness  than  before:  “I  am  now 
perfectly  satisfied.  I  wish  for  no  change.  I 
never  could  have  been  happy  with  him,  after 
knowing,  as  sooner  or  later  I  must  have  known, 
all  this.  I  should  have  had  no  confidence,  no 
esteem.  Nothing  could  have  done  it  away  to  my 
feelings.” 

“I  know  it — I  know  it,”  cried  her  mother. 
“Happy  with  a  man  of  libertine  practices !  With 
one  who  had  so  injured  the  peace  of  the  dearest 
of  our  friends,  and  the  best  of  men?  No — my 
Marianne  has  not  a  heart  to  be  made  happy  by 
such  a  man!  Her  conscience,  her  sensitive  con¬ 
science,  would  have  felt  all  that  the  conscience  of 
her  husband  ought  to  have  felt.” 

Marianne  sighed,  and  repeated — “I  wish  for 
no  change.” 

“You  consider  the  matter,”  said  Elinor,  “ex¬ 
actly  as  a  good  mind  and  a  sound  understanding 
must  consider  it ;  and  I  dare  say  you  perceive,  as 
[258]  .  ‘  ; 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

well  as  myself,  not  only  in  this,  but  in  many  other 
circumstances,  reason  enough  to  be  convinced 
that  your  marriage  must  have  involved  you  in 
many  certain  troubles  and  disappointments  in 
which  you  would  have  been  poorly  supported  by 
an  aff  ection,  on  his  side,  much  less  certain.  Had 
you  married,  you  must  have  been  always  poor. 
His  expensiveness  is  acknowledged  even  by  him¬ 
self,  and  his  whole  conduct  declares  that  self-de¬ 
nial  is  a  word  hardly  understood  by  him.  His 
demands  and  your  inexperience  together  on  a 
small,  very  small  income,  must  have  brought  on 
distresses  which  would  not  be  the  less  grievous  to 
you  from  having  been  entirely  unknown  and  un¬ 
thought  of  before.  Your  sense  of  honour  and 
honesty  would  have  led  you,  I  know,  when  aware 
of  your  situation,  to  attempt  all  the  economy  that 
would  appear  to  you  possible;  and  perhaps,  as 
long  as  your  frugality  retrenched  only  on  your 
own  comfort,  you  might  have  been  suffered  to 
practise  it,  but  beyond  that — and  how  little  could 
the  utmost  of  your  single  management  do  to  stop 
the  ruin  which  had  begun  before  your  marriage? 
— beyond  that ,  had  you  endeavoured,  however 
reasonably,  to  abridge  his  enjoyments,  is  it  not  to 
be  feared,  that  instead  of  prevailing  on  feelings 
so  selfish  to  consent  to  it,  you  would  have  lessened 
your  own  influence  on  his  heart,  and  made  him 
regret  the  connection  which  had  involved  him  in 
such  difficulties?” 


[259] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Marianne’s  lips  quivered,  and  she  repeated  the 
word  “Selfish?”  in  a  tone  that  implied  “Do  you 
really  think  him  selfish?” 

“The  whole  of  his  behaviour,”  replied  Elinor, 
“from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  affair,  has 
been  grounded  on  selfishness.  It  was  selfishness 
which  first  made  him  sport  with  your  aff  ections — 
which  afterwards,  when  his  own  were  engaged, 
made  him  delay  the  confession  of  it,  and  which 
finally  carried  him  from  Barton.  His  own  enjoy¬ 
ment,  or  his  own  ease,  was  in  every  particular  his 
ruling  principle.” 

“It  is  very  true.  My  happiness  never  was  his 
object.” 

“At  present,”  continued  Elinor,  “he  regrets 
what  he  has  done.  And  why  does  he  regret  it? 
Because  he  finds  it  has  not  answered  towards  him- 
self.  It  has  not  made  him  happy.  His  circum¬ 
stances  are  now  unembarrassed — he  suffers  from 
no  evil  of  that  kind,  and  he  thinks  only  that  he 
has  married  a  woman  of  a  less  amiable  temper 
than  yourself.  But  does  it  thence  follow  that, 
had  he  married  you,  he  would  have  been  happy? 
The  inconveniences  would  have  been  different. 
He  would  then  have  suff  ered  under  the  pecuniary 
distresses  which,  because  they  are  removed,  he 
now  reckons  as  nothing.  He  would  have  had  a 
wife  of  whose  temper  he  could  make  no  com¬ 
plaint,  but  he  would  have  been  always  necessitous 
[260] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


— always  poor;  and  probably  would  soon  have 
learnt  to  rank  the  innumerable  comforts  of  a  clear 
estate  and  good  income  as  for  far  more  impor¬ 
tance,  even  to  domestic  happiness,  than  the  mere 
temper  of  a  wife.” 

“I  have  not  a  doubt  of  it,”  said  Marianne;  “and 
I  have  nothing  to  regret — nothing  but  my  own 
folly” 

“Rather  say  your  mother’s  imprudence,  my 
child,”  said  Mrs  Dashwood;  “ she  must  be  answer- 
able.” 

Marianne  would  not  let  her  proceed;  and  Eli¬ 
nor,  satisfied  that  each  felt  their  own  error,  wished 
to  avoid  any  survey  of  the  past  that  might  weaken 
her  sister’s  spirits;  she  therefore,  pursuing  the 
first  subject,  immediately  continued — 

“One  observation  may,  I  think,  be  fairly  drawn 
from  the  whole  of  the  story — that  all  Wil¬ 
loughby’s  difficulties  have  arisen  from  the  first 
offence  against  virtue,  in  his  behaviour  to  Eliza 
Williams.  That  crime  has  been  the  origin  of 
every  lesser  one,  and  of  all  his  present  discon¬ 
tents.” 

Marianne  assented  most  feelingly  to  the  re¬ 
mark;  and  her  mother  was  led  by  it  to  an  enu¬ 
meration  of  Colonel  Brandon’s  injuries  and 
merits,  warm  as  friendship  and  design  could 
unitedly  dictate.  Her  daughter  did  not  look, 
however,  as  if  much  of  it  were  heard  by  her. 

[261] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

Elinor,  according  to  her  expectation,  saw  on 
the  two  or  three  following  days,  that  Marianne 
did  not  continue  to  gain  strength  as  she  had  done ; 
but  while  her  resolution  was  unsubdued,  and  she 
still  tried  to  appear  cheerful  and  easy,  her  sister 
could  safely  trust  to  the  effect  of  time  upon  her 
health. 

Margaret  returned,  and  the  family  were  again 
all  restored  to  each  other,  again  quietly  settled  at 
the  cottage,  and  if  not  pursuing  their  usual  stud¬ 
ies  with  quite  so  much  vigour  as  when  they  first 
came  to  Barton,  at  least  planning  a  vigorous  pros¬ 
ecution  of  them  in  future. 

Elinor  grew  impatient  for  some  tidings  of 
Edward.  She  had  heard  nothing  of  him  since  her 
leaving  London,  nothing  new  of  his  plans,  noth¬ 
ing  certain  even  of  his  present  abode.  Some  let¬ 
ters  had  passed  between  her  and  her  brother,  in 
consequence  of  Marianne’s  illness ;  and  in  the  first 
of  John’s,  there  had  been  this  sentence: — “We 
know  nothing  of  our  unfortunate  Edward,  and 
can  make  no  inquiries  on  so  prohibited  a  subject, 
but  conclude  him  to  be  still  at  Oxford;”  which 
was  all  the  intelligence  of  Edward  afforded  her 
by  the  correspondence,  for  his  name  was  not  even 
mentioned  in  any  of  the  succeeding  letters.  She 
was  not  doomed,  however,  to  be  long  in  ignorance 
of  his  measures. 

Their  man-servant  had  been  sent  one  morning 

[262] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


to  Exeter  on  business ;  and  when,  as  he  waited  at 
table,  he  had  satisfied  the  inquiries  of  his  mis¬ 
tress  as  to  the  event  of  his  errand,  this  was  his 
voluntary  communication — 

“I  suppose  you  know,  ma’am,  that  Mr.  Ferrars 
is  married.” 

Marianne  gave  a  violent  start,  fixed  her  eyes 
upon  Elinor,  saw  her  turning  pale,  and  fell  back 
in  her  chair  in  hysterics.  Mrs  Dashwood,  whose 
eyes,  as  she  answered  the  servant’s  inquiry,  had 
intuitively  taken  the  same  direction,  was  shocked 
to  perceive  by  Elinor’s  countenance  how  much 
she  really  suffered,  and  in  a  moment  afterwards, 
alike  distressed  by  Marianne’s  situation,  knew  not 
on  which  child  to  bestow  her  principal  attention. 

The  servant,  who  saw  only  that  Miss  Mari¬ 
anne  was  taken  ill,  had  sense  enough  to  call  one 
of  the  maids,  who,  with  Mrs  Dashwood’s  assist¬ 
ance,  supported  her  into  the  other  room.  By  that 
time,  Marianne  was  rather  better,  and  her  mother 
leaving  her  to  the  care  of  Margaret  and  the  maid, 
returned  to  Elinor,  who  though  still  much  dis¬ 
ordered,  had  so  far  recovered  the  use  of  her  rea¬ 
son  and  voice  as  to  be  just  beginning  an  inquiry 
of  Thomas  as  to  the  source  of  his  intelligence. 
Mrs  Dashwood  immediately  took  all  that  trouble 
on  herself:  and  Elinor  had  the  benefit  of  the 
information  without  the  exertion  of  seeking  it. 

‘‘Who  told  you  that  Mr  Ferrars  was  married, 
Thomas?” 


[263] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“I  see  Mr  Ferrars  myself,  ma’am,  this  morn¬ 
ing  in  Exeter,  and  his  lady  too,  Miss  Steele  as 
was.  They  was  stopping  in  a  chaise  at  the  door 
of  the  New  London  Inn,  as  I  went  there  with  a 
message  from  Sally  at  the  Park  to  her  brother, 
who  is  one  of  the  postboys.  I  happened  to  look 
up  as  I  went  by  the  chaise,  and  so  I  see  directly 
it  was  the  youngest  Miss  Steele;  so  I  took  off  my 
hat,  and  she  knew  me  and  called  to  me,  and  in¬ 
quired  after  you,  ma’am,  and  the  young  ladies, 
especially  Miss  Marianne,  and  bid  me  I  should 
give  her  compliments  and  Mr  Ferrars’s,  their  best 
compliments  and  service,  and  how  sorry  they  was 
they  had  not  time  to  come  on  and  see  you — but 
they  was  in  a  great  hurry  to  go  forwards,  for 
they  was  going  further  down  for  a  little  while — 
but  howsev-er,  when  they  come  back,  they’d  make 
sure  to  come  and  see  you.” 

“But  did  she  tell  you  she  was  married, 
Thomas?” 

“Yes,  ma’am.  She  smiled,  and  said  how  she 
had  changed  her  name  since  she  was  in  these  parts. 
She  was  always  a  very  affable  and  free-spoken 
young  lady,  and  very  civil-behaved.  So,  I  made 
free  to  wish  her  joy.” 

“Was  Mr  Ferrars  in  the  carriage  with  her?” 

“Yes,  ma’am,  I  just  see  him  leaning  back  in  it, 
but  he  did  not  look  up; — he  never  was  a  gentle¬ 
man  much  for  talking.” 

[264] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Elinor’s  heart  could  easily  account  for  his  not 
putting  himself  forward;  and  Mrs  Dashwood 
probably  found  the  same  explanation. 

“Was  there  no  one  else  in  the  carriage?” 

“No,  ma’am,  only  they  two.” 

“Do  you  know  where  they  came  from?” 

“They  come  straight  from  town,  as  Miss  Lucy 
— Mrs  Ferrars  told  me.” 

“And  are  going  farther  westward?” 

“Yes,  ma’am — but  not  to  bide  long.  They  will 
soon  be  back  again,  and  then  they’d  be  sure  and 
call  here.” 

Mrs  Dashwood  now  looked  at  her  daughter; 
but  Elinor  knew  better  than  to  expect  them.  She 
recognised  the  whole  of  Lucy  in  the  message,  and 
was  very  confident  that  Edward  would  never 
come  near  them.  She  observed,  in  a  low  voice,  to 
her  mother,  that  they  were  probably  going  down 
to  Mr  Pratt’s,  near  Plymouth. 

Thomas’s  intelligence  seemed  over.  Elinor 
looked  as  if  she  wished  to  hear  more. 

“Did  you  see  them  off  before  you  came  away?” 

“No,  ma’am — the  horses  was  just  coming  out, 
but  I  could  not  bide  any  longer ;  I  was  afraid  of 
being  late.” 

“Did  Mrs  Ferrars  look  well?” 

“Yes,  ma’am,  she  said  how  she  was  very  well; 
and  to  my  mind  she  was  always  a  very  handsome 
young  lady — and  she  seemed  vastly  contented.” 

[265] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


Mrs  Dash  wood  could  think  of  no  other  ques¬ 
tion,  and  Thomas  and  the  table-cloth,  now  alike 
needless,  were  soon  after  dismissed.  Marianne 
had  already  sent  to  say  that  she  should  eat  noth¬ 
ing  more;  Mrs  Dashwood’s  and  Elinor’s  appe¬ 
tites  were  equally  lost,  and  Margaret  might  think 
herself  very  well  off,  that  with  so  much  uneasiness 
as  both  her  sisters  had  lately  experienced,  so  much 
reason  as  they  had  often  had  to  be  careless  of  the 
meals,  she  had  never  been  obliged  to  go  without 
her  dinner  before. 

When  the  dessert  and  the  wine  were  arranged, 
and  Mrs  Dash  wood  and  Elinor  were  left  to  them¬ 
selves,  they  remained  long  together  in  a  similarity 
of  thoughtfulness  and  silence.  Mrs  Dash  wood 
f  eared  to  hazard  any  remark,  and  ventured  not  to 
offer  consolation.  She  now  found  that  she  had 
erred  in  relying  on  Elinor’s  representation  of 
herself ;  and  justly  concluded  that  everything  had 
been  expressly  softened  at  the  time,  to  spare  her 
from  an  increase  of  unhappiness,  suffering  as 
she  then  had  suffered  for  Marianne.  She  found 
that  she  had  been  misled  by  the  careful,  the  con¬ 
siderate  attention  of  her  daughter,  to  think  the 
attachment,  which  once  she  had  so  well  under¬ 
stood,  much  slighter  in  reality  than  she  had  been 
wont  to  believe,  or  than  it  was  now  proved  to  be. 
She  feared  that  under  this  persuasion  she  had 
been  unjust,  inattentive — nay,  almost  unkind  to 
[206] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


her  Elinor: — that  Marianne’s  affliction,  because 
more  acknowledged,  more  immediately  before 
her,  had  too  much  engrossed  her  tenderness,  and 
led  her  away  to  forget  that  in  Elinor  she  might 
have  a  daughter  suffering  almost  as  much,  cer¬ 
tainly  with  less  self -provocation  and  greater  for¬ 
titude. 


CHAPTER  XL VIII 


ELINOR  now  found  the  difference  between 
the  expectation  of  an  unpleasant  event, 
however  certain  the  mind  may  be  told  to 
consider  it,  and  certainty  itself.  She  now  found, 
that  in  spite  of  herself,  she  had  always  admitted 
a  hope,  while  Edward  remained  single,  that  some¬ 
thing  would  occur  to  prevent  his  marrying  Lucy ; 
that  some  resolution  of  his  own,  some  mediation 
of  friends,  or  some  more  eligible  opportunity  of 
establishment  for  the  lady,  would  arise  to  assist 
the  happiness  of  all.  But  he  was  now  married, 
and  she  condemned  her  heart  f  or  the  lurking  flat¬ 
tery  which  so  much  heightened  the  pain  of  the 
intelligence. 

That  he  should  be  married  so  soon,  before  (as 
she  imagined)  he  could  be  in  orders,  and  conse¬ 
quently  before  he  could  be  in  possession  of  the 
living,  surprised  her  a  little  at  first.  But  she  soon 
saw  how  likely  it  was  that  Lucy,  in  her  self -provi- 

[267] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


dent  care,  in  her  haste  to  secure  him,  should  over¬ 
look  everything  but  the  risk  of  delay.  They  were 
married,  married  in  town,  and  now  hastening 
down  to  her  uncle’s.  What  had  Edward  felt  on 
being  within  four  miles  of  Barton,  on  seeing  her 
mother’s  servant,  on  hearing  Lucy’s  message ! 

They  would  soon,  she  supposed,  be  settled  at 
Delaford, — Delaford,  that  place  in  which  so 
much  conspired  to  give  her  an  interest — which  she 
wished  to  be  acquainted  with,  and  yet  desired  to 
avoid.  She  saw  them  in  an  instant  in  their  par¬ 
sonage-house  ;  saw  in  Lucy  the  active,  contriving 
manager,  uniting  at  once  a  desire  of  smart  ap¬ 
pearance  with  the  utmost  frugality,  and  ashamed 
to  be  suspected  of  half  her  economical  practices ; 
— pursuing  her  own  interest  in  every  thought, 
courting  the  favour  of  Colonel  Brandon,  of  Mrs 
Jennings,  and  of  every  wealthy  friend.  In 
Edward,  she  knew  not  what  she  saw,  nor  what 
she  wished  to  see ; — happy  or  unhappy — nothing 
pleased  her; — she  turned  away  her  head  from 
every  sketch  of  him. 

Elinor  flattered  herself  that  some  one  of  their 
connections  in  London  would  write  to  them  to 
announce  the  event,  and  give  farther  particulars; 
but  day  after  day  passed  off,  and  brought  no  let¬ 
ter,  no  tidings.  Though  uncertain  that  any  one 
were  to  blame,  she  found  fault  with  every  absent 
friend.  They  were  all  thoughtless  or  indolent. 

[268] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

“When  do  you  write  to  Colonel  Brandon, 
ma’am?”  was  an  inquiry  which  sprung  from  the 
impatience  of  her  mind  to  have  something  going 
on. 

“I  wrote  to  him,  my  love,  last  week,  and 
rather  expect  to  see,  than  to  hear  from  him  again. 
I  earnestly  pressed  his  coming  to  us,  and  should 
not  be  surprised  to  see  him  walk  in  to-day  or 
to-morrow,  or  any  day.” 

This  was  gaining  something,  something  to  look 
forward  to.  Colonel  Brandon  must  have  some 
information  to  give. 

Scarcely  had  she  so  determined  it,  when  the 
figure  of  a  man  on  horseback  drew  her  eyes  to  the 
window.  He  stopt  at  their  gate.  It  was  a  gen¬ 
tleman,  it  was  Colonel  Brandon  himself.  Now 
she  should  hear  more; — and  she  trembled  in  ex¬ 
pectation  of  it.  But — it  was  not  Colonel  Bran¬ 
don — neither  his  air,  nor  his  height.  Were  it  pos¬ 
sible,  she  should  say  it  must  be  Edward.  She 
looked  again.  He  had  just  dismounted; — she 
could  not  be  mistaken — it  was  Edward.  She 
moved  away  and  sat  down.  “He  comes  from  Mr 
Pratt’s  purposely  to  see  us.  I  will  be  calm;  I 
will  be  mistress  of  myself.” 

In  a  moment,  she  perceived  that  the  others 
were  likewise  aware  of  the  mistake.  She  saw  her 
mother  and  Marianne  change  colour;  saw  them 
look  at  herself,  and  whisper  a  few  sentences  to 

[269] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


each  other.  She  would  have  given  the  world  to 
be  able  to  speak — and  to  make  them  understand 
that  she  had  hoped  no  coolness,  no  slight,  would 
appear  in  their  behaviour  to  him; — but  she  had 
no  utterance,  and  was  obliged  to  leave  all  to  their 
own  discretion. 

Not  a  syllable  passed  aloud.  They  all  waited 
in  silence  for  the  appearance  of  their  visitor.  His 
footsteps  were  heard  along  the  gravel  path;  in  a 
moment  he  was  in  the  passage,  and  in  another  he 
was  before  them. 

His  countenance,  as  he  entered  the  room,  was 
not  too  happy,  even  for  Elinor.  His  complexion 
was  white  with  agitation,  and  he  looked  as  if 
fearful  of  his  reception,  and  conscious  that  he 
merited  no  kind  one.  Mrs  Dash  wood,  however, 
conforming,  as  she  trusted,  to  the  wishes  of  that 
daughter  by  whom  she  then  meant,  in  the  warmth 
of  her  heart,  to  be  guided  in  everything,  met  him 
with  a  look  of  forced  complacency,  gave  him  her 
hand,  and  wished  him  joy. 

He  coloured,  and  stammered  out  an  unintelli¬ 
gible  reply.  Elinor’s  lips  had  moved  with  her 
mother’s,  and  when  the  moment  of  action  was 
over,  she  wished  that  she  had  shaken  hands  with 
him  too.  But  it  was  then  too  late,  and  with  a 
countenance  meaning  to  be  open,  she  sat  down 
again  and  talked  of  the  weather. 

Marianne  had  retreated  as  much  as  possible  out 
[270] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


of  sight,  to  conceal  her  distress;  and  Margaret, 
understanding  some  part,  but  not  the  whole,  of 
the  case,  thought  it  incumbent  on  her  to  be  dig¬ 
nified,  and  therefore  took  a  seat  as  far  from  him 
as  she  could,  and  maintained  a  strict  silence. 

When  Elinor  had  ceased  to  rejoice  in  the  dry¬ 
ness  of  the  season,  a  very  awful  pause  took  place. 
It  was  put  an  end  to  by  Mrs  Dash  wood,  who  felt 
obliged  to  hope  that  he  had  left  Mrs  Ferrars  very 
well.  In  a  hurried  manner,  he  replied  in  the  af¬ 
firmative. 

Another  pause. 

Elinor,  resolving  to  exert  herself,  though  fear¬ 
ing  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  now  said — 

“Is  Mrs  Ferrars  at  Longstaple?” 

“At  Longstaple!” — he  replied,  with  an  air  of 
surprise.  “No,  my  mother  is  in  town.” 

“I  meant,”  said  Elinor,  taking  up  some  work 
from  the  table,  “to  inquire  after  Mrs  Edward 
Ferrars.” 

She  dared  not  look  up; — but  her  mother  and 
Marianne  both  turned  their  eyes  on  him.  He  col¬ 
oured,  seemed  perplexed,  looked  doubtingly,  and, 
after  some  hesitation  said — 

“Perhaps  you  mean — my  brother — you  mean 
Mrs — Mrs  Robert  Ferrars.” 

“Mrs  Robert  Ferrars!” — was  repeated  by 
Marianne  and  her  mother  in  an  accent  of  the 
utmost  amazement; — and  though  Elinor  could 

[271] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


not  speak,  even  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  with 
the  same  impatient  wonder.  He  rose  from  his 
seat  and  walked  to  the  window,  apparently  from 
not  knowing  what  to  do;  took  up  a  pair  of 
scissars  that  lay  there,  and  while  spoiling  both 
them  and  their  sheath  by  cutting  the  latter  to 
pieces  as  he  spoke,  said,  in  an  hurried  voice — 
“Perhaps  you  do  not  know — you  may  not  have 
heard  that  my  brother  is  lately  married  to — to  the 
youngest — to  Miss  Lucy  Steele.” 

His  words  were  echoed  with  unspeakable  as¬ 
tonishment  by  all  but  Elinor,  who  sat  with  her 
head  leaning  over  her  work,  in  a  state  of  such 
agitation  as  made  her  hardly  know  where  she  was. 

“Yes,”  said  he,  “they  were  married  last  week 
and  are  now  at  Dawlish.” 

Elinor  could  sit  it  no  longer.  She  almost  ran 
out  of  the  room,  and  as  soon  as  the  door  was 
closed,  burst  into  tears  of  joy,  which  at  first  she 
thought  would  never  cease.  Edward,  who  had 
till  then  looked  anywhere  rather  than  at  her,  saw 
her  hurry  away,  and  perhaps  saw — or  even  heard 
— her  emotion;  for  immediately  afterwards  he 
fell  into  a  reverie,  which  no  remarks,  no  inquiries, 
no  affectionate  address  of  Mrs  Dashwood  could 
penetrate,  and  at  last,  without  saying  a  word, 
quitted  the  room,  and  walked  out  towards  the  vil¬ 
lage,  leaving  the  others  in  the  greatest  astonish¬ 
ment  and  perplexity  on  a  change  in  his  situation 
[272] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


so  wonderful  and  so  sudden — a  perplexity  which 
they  had  no  means  of  lessening  but  by  their  own 
conjectures. 


CHAPTER  XLIX 


UNACCOUNTABLE,  however,  as  the  cir¬ 
cumstances  of  his  release  might  appear 
to  the  whole  family,  it  was  certain  that 
Edward  was  free;  and  to  what  purpose  that  free¬ 
dom  would  be  employed  was  easily  predeter¬ 
mined  by  all;  for  after  experiencing  the  blessings 
of  one  imprudent  engagement,  contracted  with¬ 
out  his  mother’s  consent,  as  he  had  already  done 
for  more  than  four  years,  nothing  less  could  be 
expected  of  him  in  the  failure  of  that ,  than  the 
immediate  contraction  of  another. 

His  errand  at  Barton,  in  fact,  was  a  simple  one. 
It  was  only  to  ask  Elinor  to  marry  him ;  and  con¬ 
sidering  that  he  was  not  altogether  inexperienced 
in  such  a  question,  it  might  be  strange  that  he 
should  feel  so  uncomfortable  in  the  present  case 
as  he  really  did,  so  much  in  need  of  encourage¬ 
ment  and  fresh  air. 

How  soon  he  had  walked  himself  into  the 
proper  resolution  however,  how  soon  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  exercising  it  occurred,  in  what  manner 
he  expressed  himself,  and  how  he  was  received, 

[273] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


need  not  be  particularly  told.  This  only  need  be 
said: — that  when  they  all  sat  down  to  table  at 
four  o’clock,  about  three  hours  after  his  arrival, 
he  had  secured  his  lady,  engaged  her  mother’s 
consent,  and  was  not  only  in  the  rapturous  pro¬ 
fession  of  the  lover,  but  in  the  reality  of  reason 
and  truth,  one  of  the  happiest  of  men.  His  situa¬ 
tion  indeed  was  more  than  commonly  joyful. 
He  had  more  than  the  ordinary  triumph  of  ac¬ 
cepted  love  to  swell  his  heart,  and  raise  his  spirits. 
He  was  released,  without  any  reproach  to  him¬ 
self,  from  an  entanglement  which  had  long 
formed  his  misery,  from  a  woman  whom  he  had 
long  ceased  to  love — and  elevated  at  once  to  that 
security  with  another,  which  he  must  have 
thought  of  almost  with  despair,  as  soon  as  he  had 
learnt  to  consider  it  with  desire.  He  was 
brought,  not  from  doubt  or  suspense,  but  from 
misery  to  happiness ; — and  the  change  was  openly 
spoken  in  such  a  genuine,  flowing,  grateful  cheer¬ 
fulness,  as  his  friends  had  never  witnessed  in  him 
before. 

His  heart  was  now  open  to  Elinor — all  its 
weaknesses,  all  its  errors  confessed,  and  his  first 
boyish  attachment  to  Lucy  treated  with  all  the 
philosophic  dignity  of  twenty-four. 

“It  was  a  foolish,  idle  inclination  on  mv  side,” 
said  he,  “the  consequence  of  ignorance  of  the 
world — and  want  of  employment.  Had  my 
[274] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


mother  given  me  some  active  profession  when  I 
was  removed  at  eighteen  from  the  care  of  Mr 
Pratt,  I  think — nay,  I  am  sure,  it  would  never 
have  happened;  for,  though  I  left  Longstaple 
with  what  I  thought,  at  the  time,  a  most  uncon¬ 
querable  preference  for  his  niece,  yet  had  I  then 
had  any  pursuit,  any  object  to  engage  my  time 
and  keep  me  at  a  distance  from  her  for  a  few 
months,  I  should  very  soon  have  outgrown  the 
fancied  attachment,  especially  by  mixing  more 
with  the  world,  as  in  such  a  case  I  must  have  done. 
But  instead  of  having  anything  to  do — instead 
of  having  any  profession  chosen  for  me,  or  being 
allowed  to  chuse  any  myself,  I  returned  home  to 
be  completely  idle;  and  for  the  first  twelvemonth 
afterwards,  I  had  not  even  the  nominal  employ¬ 
ment  which  belonging  to  the  university  would 
have  given  me,  for  I  was  not  entered  at  Oxford 
till  I  was  nineteen.  I  had  therefore  nothing  in 
the  world  to  do,  but  to  fancy  myself  in  love;  and 
as  my  mother  did  not  make  my  home  in  every 
respect  comfortable — as  I  had  no  friend,  no  com¬ 
panion  in  my  brother,  and  disliked  new  acquaint¬ 
ance,  it  was  not  unnatural  for  me  to  be  very  often 
at  Longstaple,  where  I  always  felt  myself  at 
home,  and  was  always  sure  of  a  welcome;  and 
accordingly  I  spent  the  greatest  part  of  my  time 
there  from  eighteen  to  nineteen.  Lucy  appeared 
everything  that  was  amiable  and  obliging.  She 

[275] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


was  pretty  too — at  least  I  thought  so  then;  and  I 
had  seen  so  little  of  other  women,  that  I  could 
make  no  comparisons,  and  see  no  defects.  Con¬ 
sidering  everything,  therefore,  I  hope,  foolish  as 
our  engagement  was,  foolish  as  it  has  since  in 
every  way  been  proved,  it  was  not  at  the  time  an 
unnatural,  or  an  inexcusable  piece  of  folly.” 

The  change  which  a  f ew  hours  had  wrought  in 
the  minds  and  the  happiness  of  the  Dashwoods 
was  such — so  great — as  promised  them  all  the  sat¬ 
isfaction  of  a  sleepless  night.  Mrs  Dash  wood, 
too  happy  to  be  comfortable,  knew  not  how  to 
love  Edward  nor  praise  Elinor  enough — how  to 
be  enough  thankful  for  his  release  without 
wounding  his  delicacy,  nor  how  at  once  to  give 
them  leisure  for  unrestrained  conversation  to¬ 
gether,  and  yet  enjoy,  as  she  wished,  the  sight  and 
society  of  both. 

Marianne  could  speak  her  happiness  only  by 
tears.  Comparisons  would  occur,  regrets  would 
arise;  and  her  joy,  though  sincere  as  her  love  for 
her  sister,  was  of  a  kind  to  give  her  neither  spirits 
nor  language. 

But  Elinor,  how  are  her  feelings  to  be  de¬ 
scribed?  From  the  moment  of  learning  that 
Lucy  was  married  to  another,  that  Edward  was 
free,  to  the  moment  of  his  justifying  the  hopes 
which  had  so  instantly  followed,  she  was  every¬ 
thing  by  turns  but  tranquil.  But  when  the  sec- 
[276] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY, 


ond  moment  had  passed — when  she  found  every 
doubt,  every  solicitude  removed — compared  her 
situation  with  what  so  lately  it  had  been — saw 
him  honourably  released  from  his  former  engage¬ 
ment — saw  him  instantly  profiting  by  the  release, 
to  address  herself  and  declare  an  affection  as 
tender,  as  constant  as  she  had  ever  supposed  it  to 
be — she  was  oppressed,  she  was  overcome  by  her 
own  felicity;  and  happily  disposed  as  is  the 
human  mind  to  be  easily  familiarized  with  any 
change  for  the  better,  it  required  several  hours  to 
give  sedateness  to  her  spirits,  or  any  degree  of 
tranquillity  to  her  heart. 

Edward  was  now  fixed  at  the  cottage  at  least 
for  a  week;  for  whatever  other  claims  might  be 
made  on  him,  it  was  impossible  that  less  than  a 
week  should  be  given  up  to  the  enjoyment  of 
Elinor’s  company,  or  suffice  to  say  half  that  was 
to  be  said  of  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future; 
for  though  a  very  few  hours  spent  in  the  hard 
labour  of  incessant  talking  will  dispatch  more 
subjects  than  can  really  be  in  common  between 
any  two  rational  creatures,  yet  with  lovers  it  is 
different.  Between  them  no  subject  is  finished, 
no  communication  is  even  made,  till  it  has  been 
made  at  least  twenty  times  over. 

Lucy’s  marriage,  the  unceasing  and  reasonable 
wonder  among  them  all,  formed  of  course  one  of 
the  earliest  discussions  of  lovers;  and  Elinor’s 

[277] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


particular  knowledge  of  each  party  made  it 
appear  to  her,  in  every  view,  as  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  and  unaccountable  circumstances 
she  had  ever  heard.  How  they  could  be  thrown 
together,  and  by  what  attraction  Robert  could  be 
drawn  on  to  marry  a  girl  of  whose  beauty  she 
had  herself  heard  him  speak  without  any  admira¬ 
tion — a  girl  too  already  engaged  to  his  brother, 
and  on  whose  account  that  brother  had  been 
thrown  off  by  his  family — it  was  beyond  her  com¬ 
prehension  to  make  it  out.  To  her  own  heart  it 
was  a  delightful  affair,  to  her  imagination  it  was 
even  a  ridiculous  one ;  but  to  her  reason,  her  judg¬ 
ment,  it  was  completely  a  puzzle. 

Edward  could  only  attempt  an  explanation  by 
supposing  that  perhaps  at  first  accidentally  meet¬ 
ing,  the  vanity  of  the  one  had  been  so  worked  on 
by  the  flattery  of  the  other,  as  to  lead  by  degrees 
to  all  the  rest.  Elinor  remembered  what  Robert 
had  told  her  in  Harley-street,  of  his  opinion  of 
what  his  own  mediation  in  his  brother’s  affairs 
might  have  done,  if  applied  to  in  time.  She  re¬ 
peated  it  to  Edward. 

“That  was  exactly  like  Robert,”  was  his  imme¬ 
diate  observation.  “And  that,”  he  presently 
added,  “might  perhaps  be  in  his  head  when  the 
acquaintance  between  them  first  began.  And 
Lucy  perhaps  at  first  might  think  only  of  pro¬ 
curing  his  good  offices  in  my  favour.  Other  de¬ 
signs  might  afterwards  arise.” 

[278] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

How  long  it  had  been  carrying  on  between 
them,  however,  he  was  equally  at  a  loss  with  her¬ 
self  to  make  out;  for  at  Oxford,  where  he  had 
remained  by  choice  ever  since  his  quitting  Lon¬ 
don,  he  had  had  no  means  of  hearing  of  her  but 
from  herself,  and  her  letters  to  the  very  last  were 
neither  less  frequent  nor  less  affectionate  than 
usual.  Not  the  smallest  suspicion,  therefore,  had 
ever  occurred  to  prepare  him  for  what  followed; 
and  when  at  last  it  burst  on  him  in  a  letter  from 
Lucy  herself,  he  had  been  for  some  time,  he  be¬ 
lieved,  half  stupified  between  the  wonder,  the 
horror,  and  the  joy,  of  such  a  deliverance.  He 
put  the  letter  into  Elinor’s  hands — 

“Dear  Sir, — Being  very  sure  I  have  long  lost 
your  affections,  I  have  thought  myself  at  liberty 
to  bestow  my  own  on  another,  and  have  no  doubt 
of  being  as  happy  with  him  as  I  once  used  to 
think  I  might  be  with  you;  but  I  scorn  to  accept 
a  hand  while  the  heart  was  another’s.  Sincerely 
wish  you  happy  in  your  choice,  and  it  shall  not  be 
my  fault  if  we  are  not  always  good  friends,  as 
our  near  relationship  now  makes  proper.  I  can 
safely  say  I  owe  you  no  ill-will,  and  am  sure  you 
will  be  too  generous  to  do  us  any  ill  offices.  Your 
brother  has  gained  my  aff  ections  entirely,  and  as 
we  could  not  live  without  one  another,  we  are  just 
returned  from  the  altar,  and  are  now  on  our  way 

[279] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


to  Dawlish  for  a  few  weeks,  which  place  your 
dear  brother  has  great  curiosity  to  see,  but 
thought  I  would  first  trouble  you  with  these  few 
lines,  and  shall  always  remain, — Your  sincere 
well-wisher,  friend,  and  sister, 

“Lucy  Ferrars. 

“I  have  burnt  all  your  letters,  and  will  return 
your  picture  the  first  opportunity.  Please  to  de¬ 
stroy  my  scrawls ;  but  the  ring,  with  my  hair,  you 
are  very  welcome  to  keep.” 

Elinor  read  and  returned  it  without  any  com¬ 
ment. 

“I  will  not  ask  your  opinion  of  it  as  a  compo¬ 
sition,”  said  Edward.  “For  worlds  would  not  I 
have  had  a  letter  of  hers  seen  by  you  in  former 
days.  In  a  sister  it  is  bad  enough,  but  in  a  wife! 
How  I  have  blushed  over  the  pages  of  her  writ¬ 
ing!  and  I  believe  I  may  say  that  since  the  first 
half-year  of  our  foolish — business — this  is  the 
only  letter  I  ever  received  from  her,  of  which  the 
substance  made  me  any  amends  for  the  defect  of 
the  style.” 

“However  it  may  have  come  about,”  said 
Elinor,  after  a  pause,  “they  are  certainly  married. 
And  your  mother  has  brought  on  herself  a  most 
appropriate  punishment.  The  independence  she 
settled  on  Robert,  through  resentment  against 
[280] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


you,  has  put  it  in  his  power  to  make  his  own 
choice ;  and  she  has  actually  been  bribing  one  son 
with  a  thousand  a-year,  to  do  the  very  deed  which 
she  disinherited  the  other  for  intending  to  do. 
She  will  hardly  be  less  hurt,  I  suppose,  by 
Robert’s  marrying  Lucy  than  she  would  have 
been  by  your  marrying  her.” 

“She  will  be  more  hurt  by  it,  for  Robert  always 
was  her  favourite.  She  will  be  more  hurt  by  it, 
and  on  the  same  principle  will  forgive  him  much 
sooner.” 

In  what  state  the  affair  stood  at  present  be¬ 
tween  them  Edward  knew  not,  for  no  communi¬ 
cation  with  any  of  his  family  had  yet  been  at¬ 
tempted  by  him.  He  had  quitted  Oxford  within 
four-and-twenty  hours  after  Lucy’s  letter  ar¬ 
rived,  and  with  only  one  object  before  him,  the 
nearest  road  to  Barton,  had  had  no  leisure  to  form 
any  scheme  of  conduct  with  which  that  road  did 
not  hold  the  most  intimate  connection.  He  could 
do  nothing  till  he  were  assured  of  his  fate  with 
Miss  Dashwood;  and  by  his  rapidity  in  seeking 
that  fate,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  in  spite  of  the  jeal¬ 
ousy  with  which  he  had  once  thought  of  Colonel 
Brandon — in  spite  of  the  modesty  with  which  he 
rated  his  own  deserts,  and  the  politeness  with 
which  he  talked  of  his  doubts,  he  did  not  upon  the 
whole,  expect  a  very  cruel  reception.  It  was  his 
business,  however,  to  say  that  he  did ,  and  he  said 

[281] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


it  very  prettily.  What  he  might  say  on  the  sub¬ 
ject  a  twelvemonth  after,  must  be  referred  to  the 
imagination  of  husbands  and  wives. 

That  Lucy  had  certainly  meant  to  deceive,  to 
go  off  with  a  flourish  of  malice  against  him  in  her 
message  by  Thomas  was  perf  ectly  clear  to  Elinor ; 
and  Edward  himself  now  thoroughly  enlightened 
on  her  character,  had  no  scruple  in  believing  her 
capable  of  the  utmost  meanness  of  wanton  ill- 
nature.  Though  his  eyes  had  been  long  opened, 
even  before  his  acquaintance  with  Elinor  began, 
to  her  ignorance  and  a  want  of  liberality  in  some 
of  her  opinions,  they  had  been  equally  imputed  by 
him  to  her  want  of  education ;  and  till  her  last  let¬ 
ter  reached  him  he  had  always  believed  her  to  be 
a  well-disposed,  good-hearted  girl,  and  thor¬ 
oughly  attached  to  himself.  Nothing  but  such  a 
persuasion  could  have  prevented  his  putting  an 
end  to  an  engagement  which,  long  before  the  dis¬ 
covery  of  it  laid  him  open  to  his  mother’s  anger, 
had  been  a  continual  source  of  disquiet  and  re¬ 
gret  to  him. 

“I  thought  it  my  duty,”  said  he,  “independent 
of  my  feelings,  to  give  her  the  option  of  continu¬ 
ing  the  engagement  or  not,  when  I  was  renounced 
by  my  mother,  and  stood  to  all  appearance  with¬ 
out  a  friend  in  the  world  to  assist  me.  In  such  a 
situation  as  that,  where  there  seemed  nothing  to 
tempt  the  avarice  or  the  vanity  of  any  living 
[282] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


creature,  how  could  I  suppose,  when  she  so  earn¬ 
estly,  so  warmly  insisted  on  sharing  my  fate, 
whatever  it  might  be,  that  anything  but  the  most 
disinterested  affection  was  her  inducement? 
And  even  now,  I  cannot  comprehend  on  what 
motive  she  acted,  or  what  fancied  advantage  it 
could  be  to  her,  to  be  fettered  to  a  man  for  whom 
she  had  not  the  smallest  regard,  and  who  had  only 
two  thousand  pounds  in  the  world.  She  could  not 
foresee  that  Colonel  Brandon  would  give  me  a 
living.” 

“No,  but  she  might  suppose  that  something 
would  occur  in  your  favour;  that  your  own  fam¬ 
ily  might  in  time  relent.  And  at  any  rate,  she 
lost  nothing  by  continuing  the  engagement,  for 
she  has  proved  that  it  f  ettered  neither  her  inclina¬ 
tion  nor  her  actions.  The  connection  was  cer¬ 
tainly  a  respectable  one,  and  probably  gained  her 
consideration  among  her  friends;  and  if  nothing 
more  advantageous  occurred,  it  would  be  better 
for  her  to  marry  you  than  be  single.” 

Edward  was  of  course  immediately  convinced 
that  nothing  could  have  been  more  natural  than 
Lucy’s  conduct,  nor  more  self-evident  than  the 
motive  of  it. 

Elinor  scolded  him,  harshly  as  ladies  always 
scold  the  imprudence  which  compliments  them¬ 
selves,  for  having  spent  so  much  time  with  them 
at  Norland,  when  he  must  have  felt  his  own  in¬ 
constancy. 


[283] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“Your  behaviour  was  certainly  very  wrong,” 
said  she,  “because — to  say  nothing  of  my  own 
conviction — our  relations  were  all  led  away  by  it 
to  fancy  and  expect  what ,  as  you  were  then  situ¬ 
ated,  could  never  be.” 

He  could  only  plead  an  ignorance  of  his  own 
heart,  and  a  mistaken  confidence  in  the  force  of 
his  engagement. 

“I  was  simple  enough  to  think  that,  because  my 
faith  was  plighted  to  another,  there  could  be  no 
danger  in  my  being  with  you;  and  that  the  con¬ 
sciousness  of  my  engagement  was  to  keep  my 
heart  as  safe  and  sacred  as  my  honour.  I  felt 
that  I  admired  you,  but  I  told  myself  it  was  only 
friendship;  and  till  I  began  to  make  comparisons 
between  yourself  and  Lucy,  I  did  not  know  how 
far  I  was  got.  After  that,  I  suppose,  I  was 
wrong  in  remaining  so  much  in  Sussex,  and  the 
arguments  with  which  I  reconciled  myself  to  the 
expediency  of  it  were  no  better  than  these : — The 
danger  is  my  own;  I  am  doing  no  injury  to  any¬ 
body  but  myself.” 

Elinor  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

Edward  heard  with  pleasure  of  Colonel  Bran¬ 
don’s  being  expected  at  the  cottage,  as  he  really 
wished  not  only  to  be  better  acquainted  with  him, 
hut  to  have  an  opportunity  of  convincing  him 
that  he  no  longer  resented  his  giving  him  the  liv¬ 
ing  of  Delaford — “Which  at  present,”  said  he, 
[284] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


“after  thanks  so  ungraciously  delivered  as  mine 
were  on  the  occasion,  he  must  think  I  have  never 
forgiven  him  for  offering.” 

Now  he  felt  .astonished  himself  that  he  had 
never  yet  been  to  the  place.  But  so  little  interest 
had  he  taken  in  the  matter,  that  he  owed  all 
his  knowledge  of  the  house,  garden,  and  glebe, 
extent  of  the  parish,  condition  of  the  land,  and 
rate  of  the  tithes,  to  Elinor  herself,  who  had  heard 
so  much  of  it  from  Colonel  Brandon,  and  heard 
it  with  so  much  attention  as  to  be  entirely  mistress 
of  the  subject. 

One  question  after  this  only  remained  unde¬ 
cided  between  them,  one  difficulty  only  was  to  be 
overcome.  They  were  brought  together  by  mu¬ 
tual  affection,  with  the  warmest  approbation  of 
their  real  friends;  their  intimate  knowledge  of 
each  other  seemed  to  make  their  happiness  certain 
— and  they  only  wanted  something  to  live  upon. 
Edward  had  two  thousand  pounds,  and  Elinor 
one,  which,  with  Delaford  living,  was  all  that 
they  could  call  their  own;  for  it  was  impossible 
that  Mrs  Dashwood  should  advance  anything, 
and  they  were  neither  of  them  quite  enough  in 
love  to  think  that  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
a  year  would  supply  them  with  the  comforts  of 
life. 

Edward  was  not  entirely  without  hopes  of 
some  favourable  change  in  his  mother  towards 

[285] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


him;  and  on  that  he  rested  for  the  residue  of  their 
income.  But  Elinor  had  no  such  dependance; 
for,  since  Edward  would  still  be  unable  to  marry 
Miss  Morton,  and  his  chusing  herself  had  been 
spoken  of  in  Mrs  Ferrars’s  flattering  language 
as  only  a  lesser  evil  than  his  chusing  Lucy  Steele, 
she  feared  that  Robert’s  offence  would  serve  no 
other  purpose  than  to  enrich  Fanny. 

About  four  days  after  Edward’s  arrival, 
Colonel  Brandon  appeared,  to  complete  Mrs 
Dash  wood’s  satisfaction,  and  to  give  her  the  dig¬ 
nity  of  having,  for  the  first  time  since  her  living 
at  Barton,  more  company  with  her  than  her  house 
would  hold.  Edward  was  allowed  to  retain  the 
privilege  of  first-comer,  and  Colonel  Brandon 
therefore  walked  every  night  to  his  old  quarters 
at  the  Park;  from  whence  he  usually  returned  in 
the  morning,  early  enough  to  interrupt  the  lovers’ 
first  tete-a-tete  before  breakfast. 

A  three  weeks’  residence  at  Delaford,  where, 
in  his  evening  hours  at  least,  he  had  little  to  do 
but  to  calculate  the  disproportion  between  thirty- 
six  and  seventeen,  brought  him  to  Barton  in  a 
temper  of  mind  which  needed  all  the  improve¬ 
ment  in  Marianne’s  looks,  all  the  kindness  of  her 
welcome,  and  all  the  encouragement  of  her 
mother’s  language,  to  make  it  cheerful.  Among 
such  friends,  however,  and  such  flattery,  he  did 
revive.  No  rumor  of  Lucy’s  marriage  had  yet 
[286] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


reached  him;  he  knew  nothing  of  what  had 
passed,  and  the  first  hours  of  his  visit  were  con¬ 
sequently  spent  in  hearing  and  in  wondering. 
Everything  was  explained  to  him  by  Mrs  Dash- 
wood,  and  he  found  fresh  reason  to  rejoice  in 
what  he  had  done  for  Mr  Ferrars,  since  eventu¬ 
ally  it  promoted  the  interest  of  Elinor. 

It  would  be  needless  to  say  that  the  gentlemen 
advanced  in  the  good  opinion  of  each  other  as 
they  advanced  in  each  other’s  acquaintance,  for 
it  could  not  be  otherwise.  Their  resemblance  in 
good  principles  and  good  sense,  in  disposition  and 
manner  of  thinking,  would  probably  have  been 
sufficient  to  unite  them  in  friendship,  without  any 
other  attraction ;  but  their  being  in  love  with  two 
sisters,  and  two  sisters  fond  of  each  other,  made 
that  mutual  regard  inevitable  and  immediate, 
which  might  otherwise  have  waited  the  effect  of 
time  and  judgment. 

The  letters  from  town,  which  a  few  days  be¬ 
fore  would  have  made  every  nerve  in  Elinor’s 
body  thrill  with  transport,  now  arrived  to  be  read 
with  less  emotion  than  mirth.  Mrs  Jennings 
wrote  to  tell  the  wonderful  tale,  to  vent  her  hon¬ 
est  indignation  against  the  jilting  girl,  and  pour 
forth  her  compassion  towards  poor  Mr  Edward, 
who,  she  was  sure,  had  quite  doted  upon  the 
worthless  hussey,  and  was  now,  by  all  accounts, 
almost  broken-hearted,  at  Oxford. — “I  do  think,” 

[287] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


she  continued,  “nothing  was  ever  carried  on  so 
sly;  for  it  was  but  two  days  before  Lucy  called 
and  sat  a  couple  of  hours  with  me.  Not  a  soul 
suspected  anything  of  the  matter,  not  even 
Nancy,  who,  poor  soul!  came  crying  to  me  the 
day  after,  in  a  great  fright  for  fear  of  Mrs  Fer- 
rars,  as  well  as  not  knowing  how  to  get  to  Ply¬ 
mouth;  for  Lucy,  it  seems,  borrowed  all  her 
money  before  she  went  off  to  be  married,  on  pur¬ 
pose,  we  suppose,  to  make  a  shew  with,  and  poor 
Nancy  had  not  seven  shillings  in  the  world; — so 
I  was  very  glad  to  give  her  five  guineas,  to  tab** 
her  down  to  Exeter,  where  she  thinks  of  staying 
three  or  four  weeks  with  Mrs  Burgess,  in  hopes, 
as  I  tell  her,  to  fall  in  with  the  doctor  again.  And 
I  must  say  that  Lucy’s  crossness  not  to  take  her 
along  with  them  in  the  chaise,  is  worse  than  all. 
Poor  Mr  Edward!  I  cannot  get  him  out  of  my 
head,  but  you  must  send  for  him  to  Barton,  and 
Miss  Marianne  must  try  to  comfort  him.” 

Mr  Dashwood’s  strains  were  more  solemn. 
Mrs  Ferrars  was  the  most  unfortunate  of  women 
— poor  Fanny  had  suff  ered  agonies  of  sensibility 
— and  he  considered  the  existence  of  each,  under 
such  a  blow,  with  grateful  wonder.  Robert’s  of¬ 
fence  was  unpardonable,  but  Lucy’s  was  in¬ 
finitely  worse.  Neither  of  them  was  ever  again 
to  be  mentioned  to  Mrs  Ferrars ;  and,  even  if  she 
might  hereafter  be  induced  to  forgive  her  son,  his 
[288] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


wif  e  should  never  be  acknowledged  as  her  daugh¬ 
ter,  nor  be  permitted  to  appear  in  her  presence. 
The  secrecy  with  which  everything  had  been  car¬ 
ried  on  between  them,  was  rationally  treated  as 
enormously  heightening  the  crime,  because  had 
any  suspicion  of  it  occurred  to  the  others,  proper 
measures  would  have  been  taken  to  prevent  the 
marriage ;  and  he  called  on  Elinor  to  join  with  him 
in  regretting  that  Lucy’s  engagement  with 
Edward  had  not  rather  been  fulfilled,  than  that 
she  should  thus  be  the  means  of  spreading  misery 
farther  in  the  family.  He  thus  continued — 

“Mrs  Ferrars  has  never  yet  mentioned 
Edward’s  name,  which  does  not  surprise  us;  but, 
to  our  great  astonishment,  not  a  line  has  been  re¬ 
ceived  from  him  on  the  occasion.  Perhaps,  how¬ 
ever,  he  is  kept  silent  by  his  fear  of  offending, 
and  I  shall  therefore  give  him  a  hint,  by  a  line 
to  Oxford,  that  his  sister  and  I  both  think  a  letter 
of  proper  submission  from  him,  addressed  per¬ 
haps  to  Fanny,  and  by  her  shewn  to  her  mother, 
might  not  be  taken  amiss;  for  we  all  know  the 
tenderness  of  Mrs  Ferrars’s  heart,  and  that  she 
wishes  for  nothing  so  much  as  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  her  children.” 

This  paragraph  was  of  some  importance  to  the 
prospects  and  conduct  of  Edward.  It  deter¬ 
mined  him  to  attempt  a  reconciliation,  though  not 
exactly  in  the  manner  pointed  out  by  their  brother 
and  sister. 


19 


[289] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

“A  letter  of  proper  submission!”  repeated  he; 
“would  they  have  me  beg  my  mother’s  pardon  for 
Robert’s  ingratitude  to  her ,  and  breach  of  honour 
to  me? — I  can  make  no  submission — I  am  grown 
neither  humble  nor  penitent  by  what  has  passed. 
I  am  grown  very  happy,  but  that  would  not  inter¬ 
est.  I  know  of  no  submission  that  is  proper  for 
me  to  make.” 

“You  may  certainly  ask  to  be  forgiven,”  said 
Elinor,  “because  you  have  offended; — and  I 
should  think  you  might  now  venture  so  far  as  to 
profess  some  concern  for  having  ever  formed  the 
engagement  which  drew  on  you  your  mother’s 
anger.” 

He  agreed  that  he  might. 

“And  when  she  has  forgiven  you,  perhaps  a 
little  humility  may  be  convenient  while  acknowl¬ 
edging  a  second  engagement,  almost  as  impru¬ 
dent  in  her  eyes  as  the  first.” 

He  had  nothing  to  urge  against  it,  but  still 
resisted  the  idea  of  a  letter  of  proper  submission; 
and  therefore,  to  make  it  easier  to  him,  as  he 
declared  a  much  greater  willingness  to  make  mean 
concessions  by  word  of  mouth  than  on  paper,  it 
was  resolved  that,  instead  of  writing  to  Fanny, 
he  should  go  to  London,  and  personally  intreat 
her  good  offices  in  his  favour.  “And  if  they 
really  do  interest  themselves,”  said  Marianne,  in 
her  new  character  of  candour,  “in  bringing  about 
[290] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

a  reconciliation,  I  shall  think  that  even  John  and 
Fanny  are  not  entirely  without  merit.” 

After  a  visit  on  Colonel  Brandon’s  side  of  only 
three  or  four  days,  the  two  gentlemen  quitted* 
Barton  together.  They  were  to  go  immediately 
to  Delaford,  that  Edward  might  have  some  per¬ 
sonal  knowledge  of  his  future  home,  and  assist 
his  patron  and  friend  in  deciding  on  what  im¬ 
provements  were  needed  to  it;  and  from  thence, 
after  staying  there  a  couple  of  nights  he  was  to 
proceed  on  his  journey  to  town. 


CHAPTER  L 

AFTER  a  proper  resistance  on  the  part  of 
Mrs  Ferrars,  just  so  violent  and  so 
steady  as  to  preserve  her  from  that  re¬ 
proach  which  she  always  seemed  fearful  of  incur¬ 
ring,  the  reproach  of  being  too  amiable,  Edward 
was  admitted  to  her  presence,  and  pronounced  to 
be  again  her  son. 

Her  family  had  of  late  been  exceedingly  fluc¬ 
tuating.  For  many  years  of  her  life  she  had  two 
sons ;  but  the  crime  and  annihilation  of  Edward, 
a  few  weeks  ago,  had  robbed  her  of  one ;  the  simi¬ 
lar  annihilation  of  Robert  had  left  her  for  a  fort¬ 
night  without  any ;  and  now,  by  the  resuscitation 
of  Edward,  she  had  one  again. 


[291] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


In  spite  of  his  being  allowed  once  more  to  live, 
however,  he  did  not  feel  the  continuance  of  his 
existence  secure,  till  he  had  revealed  his  present 
engagement;  for  the  publication  of  that  circum¬ 
stance,  he  feared  might  give  a  sudden  turn  to  his 
constitution,  and  carry  him  off  as  rapidly  as  be¬ 
fore.  With  apprehensive  caution  therefore  it 
was  revealed,  and  he  was  listened  to  with  unex¬ 
pected  calmness.  Mrs  Ferrars  at  first  rea^xxably 
endeavoured  to  dissuade  him  from  marrying  Miss 
Dashwood,  by  every  argument  in  her  power; — 
told  him,  that  in  Miss  Morton  he  would  have  a 
woman  of  higher  rank  and  larger  fortune; — and 
enforced  the  assertion  by  observing  that  Miss 
Morton  was  the  daughter  of  a  nobleman  with 
thirty  thousand  pounds,  while  Miss  Dashwood 
was  only  the  daughter  of  a  private  gentleman, 
with  no  more  than  three ;  but  when  she  found  that, 
though  perfectly  admitting  the  truth  of  her 
representation,  he  was  by  no  means  inclined  to  be 
guided  by  it,  she  judged  it  wisest,  from  the  ex¬ 
perience  of  the  past,  to  submit — and  therefore, 
after  such  an  ungracious  delay  as  she  owed  to 
her  own  dignity,  and  as  served  to  prevent  every 
suspicion  of  good-will,  she  issued  her  decree  of 
consent  to  the  marriage  of  Edward  and  Elinor. 

What  she  would  engage  to  do  towards  aug¬ 
menting  their  income  was  next  to  be  considered: 
and  here  it  plainly  appeared,  that  though  Edward 
[292] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY, 


was  now  her  only  son,  he  was  by  no  means  her  eld¬ 
est;  for  while  Robert  was  inevitably  endowed 
with  a  thousand  pounds  a-year,  not  the  smallest 
objection  was  made  against  Edward’s  taking 
orders  for  the  sake  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  at 
the  utmost;  nor  was  anything  promised  either 
for  the  present  or  in  future,  beyond  the  ten  thou¬ 
sand  pounds,  which  had  been  given  with  Fanny. 

It  was  as  much,  however,  as  was  desired,  and 
more  than  was  expected,  by  Edward  and  Elinor ; 
and  Mrs  F errars  herself,  by  her  shuffling  excuses, 
seemed  the  only  person  surprised  at  her  not  giv¬ 
ing  more. 

With  an  income  quite  sufficient  to  their  wants 
thus  secured  to  them,  they  had  nothing  to  wait 
for  after  Edward  was  in  possession  of  the  living, 
but  the  readiness  of  the  house,  to  which  Colonel 
Brandon,  with  an  eager  desire  for  the  accommo¬ 
dation  of  Elinor,  was  making  considerable  im¬ 
provements;  and  after  waiting  some  time  for 
their  completion — after  experiencing,  as  usual,  a 
thousand  disappointments  and  delays,  from  the 
unaccountable  dilatoriness  of  the  workmen, — Eli¬ 
nor,  as  usual,  broke  through  the  first  positive  reso¬ 
lution  of  not  marrying  till  everything  was  ready, 
and  the  ceremony  took  place  in  Barton  church 
early  in  the  autumn. 

The  first  month  after  their  marriage  was  spent 
with  their  friend  at  the  Mansion-house,  from 

[293] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

whence  they  could  superintend  the  progress  of 
the  Parsonage,  and  direct  everything  as  they 
liked  on  the  spot;  could  chuse  papers,  project 
shrubberies,  and  invent  a  sweep.  Mrs  Jennings's 
prophecies,  though  rather  jumbled  together,  were 
chiefly  fulfilled;  for  she  was  able  to  visit  Edward 
and  his  wife  in  their  Parsonage  by  Michaelmas, 
and  she  found  in  Elinor  and  her  husband,  as  she 
really  believed,  one  of  the  happiest  [couples]  in 
the  world.  They  had  in  fact  nothing  to  wish  for, 
but  the  marriage  of  Colonel  Brandon  and  Mari¬ 
anne,  and  rather  better  pasturage  for  their  cows. 

They  were  visited  on  their  first  settling  by 
almost  all  their  relations  and  friends.  Mrs  Fer- 
rars  came  to  inspect  the  happiness  which  she  was 
almost  ashamed  of  having  authorised;  and  even 
the  Dash  woods  were  at  the  expense  of  a  journey 
from  Sussex  to  do  them  honour. 

“I  will  not  say  that  I  am  disappointed,  my  dear 
sister,”  said  John,  as  they  were  walking  together 
one  morning  before  the  gates  of  Delaford  House 
— “that  would  be  saying  too  much,  for  certainly 
you  have  been  one  of  the  most  fortunate  young 
women  in  the  world,  as  it  is.  But,  I  confess,  it 
would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  call  Colonel 
Brandon  brother.  His  property  here,  his  place, 
his  house,  everything  in  such  respectable  and  ex¬ 
cellent  condition !  and  his  woods !  I  have  not  seen 
such  timber  anywhere  in  Dorsetshire  as  there  is 
[294] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


now  standing  in  Delaf  ord  Hanger !  And  though, 
perhaps,  Marianne  may  not  seem  exactly  the  per¬ 
son  to  attract  him,  yet  I  think  it  would  altogether 
be  adviseable  for  you  to  have  them  now  fre¬ 
quently  staying  with  you,  for  as  Colonel  Brandon 
seems  a  great  deal  at  home,  nobody  can  tell  what 
may  happen — for,  when  people  are  much  thrown 
together,  and  see  little  of  anybody  else — and  it 
will  always  be  in  your  power  to  set  her  off  to 
advantage,  and  so  forth;  in  short,  you  may  as 
well  give  her  a  chance — You  understand  me.” 

But  though  Mrs  F errars  did  come  to  see  them, 
and  always  treated  them  with  the  make-believe  of 
decent  aff  ection,  they  were  never  insulted  by  her 
real  favour  and  preference.  That  was  due  to  the 
folly  of  Robert,  and  the  cunning  of  his  wife;  and 
it  was  earned  by  them  before  many  months  had- 
passed  away.  The  selfish  sagacity  of  the  latter, 
which  had  at  first  drawn  Robert  into  the  scrape, 
was  the  principal  instrument  of  his  deliverance 
from  it;  for  her  respectful  humility,  assiduous 
attentions,  and  endless  flatteries,  as  soon  as  the 
smallest  opening  was  given  for  their  exercise, 
reconciled  Mrs  Ferrars  to  his  choice,  and  re-es¬ 
tablished  him  completely  in  her  favour. 

The  whole  of  Lucy’s  behaviour  in  the  affair,: 
and  the  prosperity  which  crowned  it,  therefore, 
may  be  held  forth  as  a  most  encouraging  instance 
of  what  an  earnest,  an  unceasing  attention  to  self- 

[295] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


interest,  however  its  progress  may  be  apparently 
obstructed,  will  do  in  securing  every  advantage 
of  fortune,  with  no  other  sacrifice  than  that  of 
time  and  conscience.  When  Robert  first  sought 
her  acquaintance,  and  privately  visited  her  in 
Bartlett’s  Buildings,  it  was  only  with  the  view 
imputed  to  him  by  his  brother.  He  merely  meant 
to  persuade  her  to  give  up  the  engagement ;  and 
as  there  could  be  nothing  to  overcome  but  the 
affection  of  both,  he  naturally  expected  that  one 
or  two  interviews  would  settle  the  matter.  In  that 
point,  however,  and  that  only,  he  erred; — for 
though  Lucy  soon  gave  him  hopes  that  his  elo¬ 
quence  would  convince  her  in  time ,  another  visit, 
another  conversation,  was  always  wanted  to  pro¬ 
duce  this  conviction.  Some  doubts  always 
lingered  in  her  mind  when  they  parted,  which 
could  only  be  removed  by  another  half  -hour’s  dis¬ 
course  with  himself.  His  attendance  was  by  this 
means  secured,  and  the  rest  followed  in  course. 
Instead  of  talking  of  Edward,  they  came  gradu¬ 
ally  to  talk  only  of  Robert, — a  subject  on  which 
he  had  always  more  to  say  than  on  any  other,  and 
in  which  she  soon  betrayed  an  interest  even  equal 
to  his  own;  and  in  short,  it  became  speedily  evi¬ 
dent  to  both,  that  he  had  entirely  supplanted  his 
brother.  He  was  proud  of  his  conquest,  proud 
of  tricking  Edward,  and  very  proud  of  marrying 
privately  without  his  mother’s  consent.  What 
[296] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

immediately  followed  is  known.  They  passed 
some  months  in  great  happiness  at  Dawlish;  for 
she  had  many  relations  and  old  acquaintance  to 
cut — and  he  drew  several  plans  for  magnificent 
cottages; — and  from  thence  returning  to  town, 
procured  the  forgiveness  of  Mrs  Ferrars,  by  the 
simple  expedient  of  asking  it,  which,  at  Lucy’s 
instigation,  was  adopted.  The  forgiveness  at 
first,  indeed,  as  was  reasonable,  comprehended 
only  Robert ;  and  Lucy,  who  had  owed  his  mother 
no  duty,  and  therefore  could  have  transgressed 
none,  still  remained  some  weeks  longer  unpar¬ 
doned.  But  perseverance  in  humility  of  conduct, 
and  messages,  in  self-condemnation  for  Robert’s 
offence,  and  gratitude  for  the  unkindness  she  was 
treated  with,  procured  her  in  time  the  haughty 
notice  which  overcame  her  by  its  graciousness,  and 
led  soon  afterwards,  by  rapid  degrees,  to  the 
highest  state  of  affection  and  influence.  Lucy 
became  as  necessary  to  Mrs  Ferrars,  as  either 
Robert  or  Fanny;  and  while  Edward  was  never 
cordially  forgiven  for  having  once  intended  to 
marry  her,  and  Elinor,  though  superior  to  her  in 
fortune  and  birth,  was  spoken  of  as  an  intruder, 
she  was  in  everything  considered,  and  always 
openly  acknowledged,  to  be  a  favourite  child. 
They  settled  in  town,  received  very  liberal  assist¬ 
ance  from  Mrs  Ferrars,  were  on  the  best  terms 
imaginable  with  the  Dash  woods,  and  setting 

[297] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


aside  the  jealousies  and  ill-will  continually  sub¬ 
sisting  between  Fanny  and  Lucy,  in  which  their 
husbands  of  course  took  a  part,  as  well  as  the 
frequent  domestic  disagreements  between  Robert 
and  Lucy  themselves,  nothing  could  exceed  the 
harmony  in  which  they  all  lived  together. 

What  Edward  had  done  to  forfeit  the  right  of 
eldest  son,  might  have  puzzled  many  people  to 
find  out ;  and  what  Robert  had  done  to  succeed  to 
it,  might  have  puzzled  them  still  more.  It  was 
an  arrangement,  however,  justified  in  its  effects, 
if  not  in  its  cause;  for  nothing  ever  appeared  in 
Robert’s  style  of  living,  or  of  talking,  to  give  a 
suspicion  of  his  regretting  the  extent  of  his  in¬ 
come,  as  either  leaving  his  brother  too  little,  or 
bringing  himself  to  much ; — and  if  Edward  might 
be  judged  from  the  ready  discharge  of  his  duties 
in  every  particular,  from  an  increasing  attach¬ 
ment  to  his  wife  and  his  home,  and  from  the  reg¬ 
ular  cheerfulness  of  his  spirits,  he  might  be  sup¬ 
posed  no  less  contented  with  his  lot,  no  less  free 
from  every  wish  of  an  exchange. 

Elinor’s  marriage  divided  her  as  little  from 
her  family  as  could  well  be  contrived,  without 
rendering  the  cottage  at  Barton  entirely  useless, 
for  her  mother  and  sisters  spent  much  more  than 
half  their  time  with  her.  Mrs  Dashwood  was  act¬ 
ing  on  motives  of  policy  as  well  as  pleasure  in  the 
frequency  of  her  visits  at  Delaford;  for  her  wish 
[298] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

of  bringing  Marianne  and  Colonel  Brandon 
together  was  hardly  less  earnest,  though  rather 
more  liberal  than  what  John  had  expressed.  It 
was  now  her  darling  object.  Precious  as  was  the 
company  of  her  daughter  to  her,  she  desired  noth¬ 
ing  so  much  as  to  give  up  its  constant  enjoyment 
to  her  valued  friend;  and  to  see  Marianne  settled 
at  the  Mansion-house  was  equally  the  wish  of 
Edward  and  Elinor.  They  each  felt  his  sorrows 
and  their  own  obligations,  and  Marianne,  by  gen¬ 
eral  consent,  was  to  be  the  reward  of  all. 

With  such  a  confederacy  against  her — with  a 
knowledge  so  intimate  of  his  goodness — with  a 
conviction  of  his  fond  attachment  to  herself, 
which  at  last,  though  long  after  it  was  observable 
to  everybody  else,  burst  on  her — what  could  she 
do? 

Marianne  Dashwood  was  born  to  an  extraor¬ 
dinary  fate.  She  was  born  to  discover  the  false¬ 
hood  of  her  own  opinions,  and  to  counteract,  by 
her  conduct,  her  most  favourite  maxims.  She 
was  borne  to  overcome  an  affection  formed  so 
late  in  life  as  at  seventeen,  and  with  no  sentiment 
superior  to  strong  esteem  and  lively  friendship, 
voluntarily  to  give  her  hand  to  another! — and 
that  other,  a  man  who  had  suffered  no  less  than 
herself  under  the  event  of  a  former  attachment, 
— whom,  two  years  before,  she  had  considered  too 
old  to  be  married, — and  who  still  sought  the  con¬ 
stitutional  safeguard  of  a  flannel  waistcoat! 

[299] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


But  so  it  was.  Instead  of  falling  a  sacrifice  to 
an  irresistible  passion,  as  once  she  had  fondly  flat¬ 
tered  herself  with  expecting, — instead  of  remain¬ 
ing  even  for  ever  with  her  mother,  and  finding 
her  only  pleasures  in  retirement  and  study,  as 
afterwards  in  her  more  calm  and  sober  judgment 
she  had  determined  on, — she  found  herself,  at 
nineteen,  submitting  to  new  attachments,  enter¬ 
ing  on  new  duties,  placed  in  a  new  home,  a  wife, 
the  mistress  of  a  family,  and  the  patroness  of  a 
village. 

Colonel  Brandon  was  now  as  happy  as  all  those 
who  best  loved  him  believed  he  deserved  to  be ; — 
in  Marianne  he  was  consoled  for  every  past  afflic¬ 
tion; — her  regard  and  her  society  restored  his 
mind  to  animation,  and  his  spirits  to  cheerfulness : 
and  that  Marianne  found  her  own  happiness  in 
forming  his,  was  equally  the  persuasion  and  de¬ 
light  of  each  observing  friend.  Marianne  could 
never  love  by  halves ;  and  her  whole  heart  became, 
in  time,  as  much  devoted  to  her  husband,  as  it 
had  once  been  to  Willoughby. 

Willoughby  could  not  hear  of  her  marriage 
without  a  pang;  and  his  punishment  was  soon 
afterwards  complete  in  the  voluntary  forgiveness 
of  Mrs  Smith,  who,  by  stating  his  marriage  with 
a  woman  of  character,  as  the  source  of  her  clem¬ 
ency,  gave  him  reason  for  believing,  that  had  he 
behaved  with  honour  towards  Marianne,  he  might 
[300] 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 


at  once  have  been  happy  and  rich.  That  his  re¬ 
pentance  of  misconduct,  which  thus  brought  its 
own  punishment, was  sincere, need  not  be  doubted ; 
nor  that  he  long  thought  of  Colonel  Brandon 
with  envy,  and  of  Marianne  with  regret.  But 
that  he  was  for  ever  inconsolable — that  he  fled 
from  society,  or  contracted  an  habitual  gloom  of 
temper,  or  died  of  a  broken  heart,  must  not  be 
depended  on — for  he  did  neither.  He  lived  to 
exert,  and  frequently  to  enjoy  himself.  His  wife 
was  not  always  out  of  humour,  nor  his  home 
always  uncomfortable !  and  in  his  breed  of  horses 
and  dogs,  and  in  sporting  of  every  kind,  he  found 
no  inconsiderable  degree  of  domestic  felicity. 

F or  Marianne,  however — in  spite  of  his  incivil¬ 
ity  in  surviving  her  loss — he  always  retained  that 
decided  regard  which  interested  him  in  every¬ 
thing  that  befell  her,  and  made  her  his  secret 
standard  of  perfection  in  woman;  and  many  a 
rising  beauty  would  be  slighted  by  him  in  after 
days  as  bearing  no  comparison  with  Mrs  Brandon. 

Mrs  Dashwood  was  prudent  enough  to  remain 
at  the  cottage,  without  attempting  a  removal  to 
Delaford;  and  fortunately  for  Sir  John  and  Mrs 
Jennings,  when  Marianne  was  taken  from  them, 
Margaret  had  reached  an  age  highly  suitable  for 
dancing,  and  not  very  ineligible  for  being  sup¬ 
posed  to  have  a  lover. 

Between  Barton  and  Delaford,  there  was  that 

[301] 


* 


SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY 

constant  communication  which  strong  family 
aff ection  would  naturally  dictate ;  and  among  the 
merits  and  the  happiness  of  Elinor  and  Mari¬ 
anne,  let  it  not  be  ranked  as  the  least  consider¬ 
able,  that  though  sisters,  and  living  almost  within 
sight  of  each  other,  they  could  live  without  dis¬ 
agreement  between  themselves,  or  producing 
coolness  between  their  husbands. 

Finis. 


[302] 


s 


X 


